


There Is No Sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin

by melancholymango



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Dirty Talk, First Time, Geralt's Canonically Huge Dick, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Jaskier just gets turned into a vampire, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Monsterfucking, No Characters Die, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampires, angst if you squint, spookruary 2020, they are both rough AND gentle with each other bc they have the RANGE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melancholymango/pseuds/melancholymango
Summary: “And then you’ll give it to me good? Show me what I’ve been missing all these years?” Jaskier whispers, like speaking any louder might break the moment, might shatter the adoration worn so proudly on Geralt’s face. He brings a hand up, trails his fingers idly through Geralt’s chest hair. “I want you to take me apart and put me back together again, new, in your image. Want to feel you inside me long after you’ve gone. I want you to finally, finally show me how a witcher fucks.”“I don’t speak for all of us.” Geralt reminds him, burying his face further into the curve of his neck and inhaling deeply. But, unable to resist, he treats Jaskier to a slow and steady roll of his hips. It punches groans out of both their chests, vastly different pitches but at their core the exact same sound for the both of them. “Don’t fuck for all of us, either.”“Then show me how /my/ witcher fucks. Heaven knows you’re the only one I’ve ever had eyes for anyway."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1830
Collections: Best Geralt, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	There Is No Sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin

**Author's Note:**

> It feels quite weird to be writing for a new fandom after four years writing exclusively for another one. But I am here, I have been DEEPLY invested for about a month now, CONSUMING all the content I can get my grubby little hands on, and I do believe I'm ready to contribute something. Is it something of value? absolutely not, it's monsterfucking porn, but who would I be if it were anything else?
> 
> Quick note: though I did peruse the witcher wiki quite extensively in terms of in-game vampires, i took some creative liberties of my own because the higher vampire lore didn't exactly suit what I wanted. So he's more of a classic vampire, that can be killed, and was turned from another vampire's bite/venom. so if you're a stickler for game-based accuracy, this May not be the work for you.

Jaskier is dead.

And as far as Geralt is concerned, it’s all _his_ fault.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, he’d been tempting fate for the better part of a decade letting the foolish bard trail after him. There was only ever one way it was going to end. He’d known this from the start, had told Jaskier as much the day they met, and a thousand times since with every close call the two of them shared. The bard was as good as dead if he insisted on following in Geralt’s footsteps, it wasn’t a matter of _if_ , it was a matter of when.

It would seem they’d finally gotten their answer.

\--

To say that Geralt is pissed would be an understatement. He’s furious in ways beyond comprehension.

It was a coven of vampires, he’d tracked them as far as the abandoned house they’d been staying in and then went back to set up his camp relatively nearby. Mostly, so he could deposit Jaskier far from harm’s reach and then go back alone to take care of business.

Only, when Geralt had returned a few hours later at sunrise, the vampires had been waiting for him. It wouldn’t have been a problem, even without the element of surprise on Geralt’s side… if it’d only been the six vampires the villagers had spoken of. There were more, many more, so many he lost count after dispatching about eleven. He held his ground, until finally the remaining vampires had retreated. 

He would have ran after them, but in truth… he was lucky to still be standing by the time they turned tail and ran. It was everything he could do not to collapse while they were still in earshot of where he was.

And so, with empty hands and a scowl deep enough to intimidate a bear, Geralt stalks back toward the camp.

Geralt can count the amount of times he’s walked away from a hunt empty-handed on, well, both of his two hands. He’s known for his accuracy, for his near-flawless track record, and Jaskier’s colorful songs on the topic are only partially to thank for the reputation. The fact of the matter is, he’s good at what he does because it’s all he’s ever known how to do. It’s his purpose. He wakes up, he hunts, he sleeps. On a good day, he gets some coin out of it, but in his heart he knows that this is what he’d be doing whether it was a paid gig or not.

What else would he do, given the choice?

Jaskier is different. In a multitude of ways, yes, so different that sometimes Geralt can’t help but wonder if any part of their genetic makeup is still the same. But, despite their differences, they’ve spent enough time together that he likes to think that they’ve found a certain level of kinship with one another. He understands Jaskier, and for all his insistence that he’s utterly alone in the world… Geralt knows that Jaskier understands him, perhaps better than he understands himself. 

There’s just one thing he can’t wrap his head around. Why is a man like Jaskier, brimming with passion for the world, more hobbies and skills than he has time, someone with nothing but options… choosing to spend his life doing this? The shit work, the bottom of the barrel, barely above a beggar’s toil (or perhaps below, when the risk of one’s life is taken into account). 

Jaskier’s years are fleeting, with a lifespan far shorter than the average Witcher is allotted, so why, pray tell, is he wasting what little time he has doing a Witcher’s work?

Geralt is no idiot. He knows it can’t be for the sake of inspiration like Jaskier claims. Sure, perhaps that might have been all there was to it in the beginning, Jaskier was known to flounce wherever his whimsy inspired him to go. But he caught and dropped interest with the attention span of a fly. He romanticized everything in life so direly that simply nothing lived up to expectations, and so he moved on.

Yet here they were, still traveling together despite every bold red flag that’s begged Jaskier to run the other way and not look back. Perhaps, it’s his sheer stubbornness keeping him here.

They’d set up camp in a small clearing along the river’s edge. It’s a pretty place, the ground covered in soft moss and the sunlight filtering through the ancient trees towering overhead. There are dandelions growing by the hundreds littered across the ground and before heading out for his hunt, Geralt had stood by and watched Jaskier make a crown for himself out of the yellow flowers. He’d attempted to make one for Geralt as well, but Geralt threatened to dislocate his wrist before it came anywhere near his head, and so that was that. 

Now though, beaten and bruised and just a little bit bloody, Geralt would be lying to say he isn’t looking forward to coming back and letting Jaskier have his way with him, flower crowns or not. The bard is no sorcerer, but Geralt swears there’s magic in those hands of his when they work the knots out of his sore muscles or massage cream into open wounds. He’s never trusted anyone to handle him like he trusts Jaskier, when he’s wounded and wants nothing more than to turn his back on the world, he lets Jaskier pull him back and coddle him.

It isn’t long before Geralt is stumbling through the underbrush and emerging into the clearing, hobbling along as best he can while favoring one leg over the other. He lights up slightly as the dim light of the fire beckons him in like a moth to a flame, promising heat and food and… Jaskier. 

Except… as Geralt listens closely for the familiar pitter-patter of a too-fast heartbeat, there is none.

There are no thudding clumsy footsteps approaching him excitedly. There isn’t a shrill voice greeting him and demanding the details of his latest quest, begging for new song material. There isn’t the soft and fleeting touch of a hand on his arm, gently leading him back toward the camp to be patched up after his latest battle. 

Hell, there isn’t even a fucking whinny from Roach, and that realization is the one that sends Geralt into a panic, or the closest thing that a Witcher ever allows themselves to experience.

The camp is trashed, now that Geralt is focusing his attention and growing closer with every step. The flames are still burning only because a bag of their rations had ended up tossed into the pit. Their bedrolls are muddied, and as Geralt grows closer and smells it on the air, he can confirm that they’re also bloodied. It looks like a wild animal attacked, nothing about it is the clean and callous kill of a vampire.

But, there’s no denying that it was them that did this. Geralt can still smell their scent drifting around the clearing, sees the tracks of shoes in the dirt. Jaskier’s body may not be lying here, drained and lifeless like a vampire’s prey would normally be, but Geralt knows why. This kill wasn’t for the sake of feeding, it was for the sake of revenge. It’s personal.

Why would they give him the closure of seeing Jaskier’s corpse? They weren’t given the closure of sticking around to bury their own, to see them off properly. So Geralt isn’t being given the chance to see Jaskier again, at all. 

Assuming they get their way, which they won’t. Geralt has already made up his mind, he’s not letting them get away with this, he’ll track them down and tear their limbs from their bodies. And… if he’s too late, gods forbid, he’ll at least give Jaskier’s the proper send-off he deserves. A funeral fit for a warrior, though he’d never been much of one.

The thought brings a bittersweet smile to Geralt’s face, as he gathers anything that looks salvageable and prepares to go in search of Roach. 

\--

The thing is, Geralt hadn’t entertained the possibility that he simply wouldn’t _find_ the vampires again.

He finds Roach easily enough, spooked but unharmed, deep in the thick of the forest.

He finds Jaskier’s lute, tossed carelessly into a thicket of wild roses, the wood stained red with blood.

He finds their trail, follows it for days, and eventually weeks, but they’re always one step ahead of him. 

It doesn’t help that they split up not long after leaving the forest, going in five different directions and leaving Geralt to choose just one. Truth be told, he can’t smell Jaskier’s scent alongside the vampire’s at all anymore, but surely he would have caught it if they’d dumped the body along the way somewhere. 

And so he holds onto his hope, and chooses the direction that _feels_ right.

\--

It’s a dead-end.

He backtracks, tries to follow another trail, but by then the weather has worn down their scent to something muddled and unrecognizable. Geralt is simply out of options. He’s never admitted defeat in his life and he’s not about to start now, to spit in the face of Jaskier’s memory like so. 

He wanders aimlessly for another month, refusing to take on another contract until this has been dealt with. The odds aren’t good, realistically he knows that Jaskier can’t still be alive in their company, but he can’t bring himself to accept it until he sees it with his own eyes. He won’t give up on Jaskier, the one person who never gave up on him. 

He stops in village after village, asking the locals for any information they can spare. No one knows anything, which frustrates him to the point of drinking, lumbering into a different tavern every night that he can and downing ale voraciously, like he can chase away the ghosts that haunt him with poor decisions and alcohol alone. Drunkenly, he finds himself staring up at the sky and pleading with the universe to let him hear Jaskier’s singing voice in the next tavern he finds. 

\--

Eventually, as Witchers are wont to do, Geralt moves on.

What choice does he have? He lived before the bard, he’ll live after him. Sure, it’ll be a life barren of massages and baths, but it’ll also be a life barren of distractions and attachments. He’ll be stronger for it.

There’s a war on the rise, he can’t _afford_ to be distracted now. 

There’s also a war raging in his chest, as he takes another petty job for a handful of coins like he always has, and tells himself it isn’t betraying Jaskier to give up on him so easily. He can’t _afford_ to be this attached, so attached that it costs him coins, costs him his sleep, costs him his sanity… 

\--

Cirilla is a fiery thing, with a wicked screech on her whenever she doesn’t get her way. Geralt learns that the hard way, more than once, until finally it sinks into his skull and he realizes that he can’t treat the princess how he’s treated every other person that’s ever come into his life. He can’t trudge ahead and blindly hope that she’ll follow suit, taking his word at face value and respecting it. 

He has to… reason with her, be kind to her, talk emotions with her. It’s tiresome, but oddly rewarding. He finds that he doesn’t mind her company, definitely prefers it to the loneliness that is traveling without a companion. It keeps his mind off of Jaskier throughout the days while she prattles on, and during the nights he’s given somewhat of a distraction in watching over her. It’s something. Better than being alone with his thoughts.

One such night, while they’re huddled together near the fire for warmth and listening to the distant thud of cannonballs landing, Ciri asks him a question that he’s been running away from for months.

“Who’s Jaskier?” 

“Hm.” Geralt huffs, a noncommittal sound. He gets to his feet, leaves her huddled by the fire as he busies himself rooting through their bags, hoping a snack before bed might distract her. They’ve been traveling together for over a month now and she isn’t dense by any stretch of the word, surely she’s picked up on when to drop a subject and when to press on.

“Aren’t you going to ask me where I heard the name? At least?” Ciri calls after him, in that painstakingly innocent voice, making it all the more clear that she’s just being a child. It’s not her fault that she has questions, that her curiosity gets the better of her. When Geralt looks over at her, she’s stretching out languidly across her bedroll, the one that’d once _been_ Jaskier’s. 

It hurts to think about. It’s been half a year, the wound is far from fresh, and yet the moment he pays attention to it, the sting of it is enough to paralyze his whole body. It’s a poisonous kind-of hurt, the kind that creeps up your bones and into your heart, a festering wound that rots the longer you ignore it but hurts worse the more you pay attention to it. Geralt’s never experienced anything like it before, even with all the times he’s been beaten and flayed at the hands of monsters, this wound is worse. He has no idea what he’s meant to do with it.

Geralt doesn’t answer her, just returns with an apple in hand and shoves it unceremoniously in her direction. She takes a hearty bite out of it, chewing loudly with her mouth open, one of the many bad habits she’s already picked up from him. It’s hard to believe she ever lived as a prim and proper member of the royal family looking at her now, clothes frayed and hair muddy, eyes sparkling with ferality. 

“You cry out for him in your sleep sometimes. Nightmares, I assume.” Ciri comments with complete impassiveness, her tone void of judgment and opinion, as if she were speaking of the weather. Still, Geralt stiffens, feels his throat grow tight to the point of suffocation. He doesn’t want to talk about this.

He makes this clear, rolling over into his own bedroll and turning his back on her without so much as a word. Conversation firmly ended.

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“Yes.” Geralt doesn’t know why his own tongue betrays him, forces him to answer the question. 

“What happened to him?”

“Vampires.” The word leaves him in a breath, his entire body deflating with the loss of it.

“He’s dead, then?” It’s an innocent question. Curious. Observant. A natural conclusion.

It makes Geralt want to scream.

Of course Jaskier is dead. It’s been months with no sign of otherwise. In his head, Geralt is well-aware of the odds of survival, how nonexistent they truly are at this point. He’s dealt with vampires, he knows how they work, what the possibilities are. But… in his heart, Geralt has yet to accept the fact that’s been presented to him. He’ll stare facts in the face and refute them if it means keeping Jaskier alive, even if only in his mind. Ignorance is bliss.

“You should get some sleep, you need your strength.” Geralt says, restlessness causing him to sit up again. He stares into the heavily-wooded forest surrounding them, eyes wide and searching. Distantly, he remembers night just like this one, with Jaskier’s figure casting shadows across the grass and that incessant lute playing melodies into the night. Geralt had fallen asleep many a night listening to those steady rhythms, the sound of Jaskier’s humming. Now, Geralt’s lucky to be able to close his eyes longer than a second or two, anxiety building in the back of his mind.

“What about you? Don’t _you_ need strength?”

“Cirilla.”

“Geralt.” She fires right back at him, in a parrot-like imitation of his unimpressed tone. He sighs long and hard, scrubs a hand over his face, tries not to wince when she speaks up suddenly. “Do you miss him?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t know.” It’s a not answer, hardly a justification for putting Geralt through this torture. She must know what he’s thinking though, because she cautiously continues in a much quieter tone, lacking the confidence she came into the conversation with. “I’ve lost so many people. I suppose everyone has, but for some reason it never occurred to me that you had too.”

“He wasn’t a war casualty.”

“Isn’t that worse, in a way?”

“In a way.” Geralt relents in agreement, curling his hands into fists in his lap and staring down at them.

“He must have been pretty important to you.” 

“I didn’t realize it at the time.” He admits slowly, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue for the very first time. It feels unbalanced and unfamiliar, admitting it aloud. It’s something he’s thought about in great depths, agonized over to the point of driving himself to the brink of his sanity. Yet, he’s never once felt tempted to speak it to anyone else, to share the burden. “I took him for granted while he was here and now he’s not. And that’s something I have to learn to live with.”

“You haven’t yet?”

“No.” Geralt answers honestly, staring unseeingly ahead of himself. 

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight.”

\--

It’s not long after that night, only a matter of weeks, that they stumble across a small village in the wilderness and Geralt stops dead in his tracks the moment he sets foot in the inn.

It’s always an overwhelming attack on his senses, walking into such a closed-space filled with people. It reeks of sweat, of all manners of food and drink, with a cacophony of emotions being broadcasted around the room. It’s loud and bright after walking through the dark for hours, but it’s a necessary evil to get to the comfort of a warm, dry bed so Geralt takes it all in stride. He’s faced far worse.

But it’s not the general assault on his senses that has him hesitating this time, but rather one very specific smell in particular. At first, he barely catches a whiff of it in the mixture of everything else, but then he concentrates and inhales hard, nostrils flaring… and all the doubt vanishes from his mind in an instant. He knows that smell. He knows it damn well. It was burned into the inside of his nostrils after spending weeks tracking it.

Ciri notices the tension in his posture, crowds closer to his side and looks warily around the room like she might be able to identify the threat as well. When she fails to notice anything amiss, she looks up at him with wide eyes, startlingly blue.

“What is it?”

“Hm.” Geralt hums, hand coming down to grip her forearm and drag her further into the room. He crowds closer to her than he normally would, a feeling of protectiveness engulfing him at the very first hint of that scent on the air. He’s already lost someone important by underestimating these vampires, damn if he’ll let it happen a second time.

They reach the innkeep behind the bar and Geralt exchanges a few words with him, as well as a small handful of coins. He directs them up toward the rooms and Geralt leads the way, only to stop short of the stairs and kneel next to Ciri instead. She looks panicked, eyes still blown wide, darting around the room in desperate search of what it is she’s missing.

“Listen to me. You’re going to head upstairs to the room and lock the door behind yourself. Stay away from the windows, stay quiet, don’t draw attention. Wait there for me until I come back.”

“No!” As expected, she immediately rejects every word of what he’s said. He doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance, as he tips his head back and gives a long frustrated groan, rubbing his fingers across his forehead to stave off an oncoming headache. Children are so difficult. “I’m not staying here alone! You can’t make me!”

“You won’t be alone, I’ll leave Roach in the stables.”

“What if you don’t come back?”

“I will.”

“But if you don’t?” She presses on, the fiery look in her gaze telling Geralt that he’s not getting away from this without giving her a proper answer. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, looking over his shoulder and huffing discreetly, confirming that the group of men and women headed for the door right now are his targets. They’re getting away. He’s running out of time.

“There’s a woman… Yennefer of Vengerberg. Find her.”

“Seriously? What is with the adults in my life sending me on wild goose chases with nothing but a name to rely on!? That’s not good enough!”

“Well, good thing I’m coming back, then.” Geralt snaps at her, shorter than he’d normally allow himself to be with the child. It’s not her fault that she’s being so difficult, not really. She has every right to feel fearful to be left alone, after everything she’s been through. Geralt hasn’t left her side since they were reunited and in truth it’s paining him to do so, but he knows she’s safer here. 

Desperation crawls as the door to the inn slams shut behind his targets. He does something that he normally wouldn’t do, gives up on ordering her around and instead tries desperately to reason with her, even at the cost of his pride. “Please, Cirilla. I have to do this.”

“ _Why_?”

Geralt hesitates for a long moment, painstakingly aware of every single second ticking by as he struggles to find the words, the way to express just how much this means to him. His hand trembles slightly where it holds her arm and so he drops it, curls it into an angry fist at his side.

“For Jaskier.” It’s strange, how it can hurt him so just to speak the name of someone that once brought him so much (albeit begrudged) joy. He hasn’t attempted to breech the topic since the first time it came up between them and he had no intentions of ever speaking of Jaskier again, seeing as it only brought the hurt back to the forefront of his mind. But now it seems he has no choice.

“I understand.”

“I’ll come back.” Geralt reminds her, his tone insistent. He gets to his feet, wipes his hands off on his breeches and gives her a firm nod. She smiles up at him, hesitant but void of the uncertainty from before. There’s a certain air of understanding in her gaze now.

“I know you will.”

\--

It’s dusk when Geralt traces the trail back into the woods on the outskirts of the village, surprised by how much easier it is to follow this time around. They’re sloppy with it, like they’ve let their guard down now that they’re unaware of him. Hell, the path they follow is so well-worn in places that the plants have been replaced by dried dirt, and that’s how he knows he’s found their den. The element of surprise is definitely on his side today and he’s going to use it to his full advantage.

It seems a bit poorly-decided that they’d make their den so close to the village, in a mediocre farmhouse barely big enough to host a family, let alone an undead army. There’s a barn and as he stalks around through the trees, surveying the area from all angles, he thinks he even hears animals inside of it. What use a coven of vampires has for livestock is beyond him.

There are a few of them out and about on the grounds. One is stood outside the door to the house, as a guard presumably. There are a couple of them working in a garden, hoeing up a potato harvest. And there’s even a young one playing in a nearby pond, appearing to be hardly more than five or six years old, and even for vampire’s it seems cruel to damn such a young child to a life of eternal damnation.

The thing is, Geralt has never stumbled across a vampire den and given himself enough time to familiarize himself with it before drawing his sword and desecrating everything within sight. But he’s sure it’s not like this, not normally. These few vampires don’t seem malicious or blood-hungry, they hardly seem like monsters at all. If anything, they give the impression of being a run of the mill working class farming family, and perhaps that’s why they’ve been able to stay so close to the village without raising any suspicions despite the fact they must be feeding.

They look almost human and in any other scenario, it would be enough to give Geralt pause, to make him step back and think twice before charging into the battle. It’s the wise thing to do, when things are different from expectations, they’re usually a reason for it. With monsters, things are never more than what they seem, unless something sinister is afoot. He’s learnt that the hard way.

And yet…

His silver sword is grasped in his hand, a potion downed, and then his teeth are bared in anger as he charges on them like a beast. He doesn’t think once, let alone twice.

Because he can smell it. The scent that’s haunted him for years, the scent that he snorted so deeply and desperately it felt like it burnt his nostrils out to ever smell anything else, the scent that features in every damn nightmare that has plagued him in the past year and a half. It’s thick and heady in the air, pungent in the way it lingers around their home.

Murderers like these don’t _deserve_ a home.

_Monsters_ like these.

The first one doesn’t even realize he’s coming in time to dodge, its severed head landing with a thud in the basket of gathered potatoes. The other one shrieks, something shrill and awful, a scream pitched enough to curdle blood. Geralt takes great satisfaction in dispatching that one with a brutal swing, its body crumpling to the ground in two separate halves. 

The sheer weight of his emotions has him fighting sloppier than he normally would, driven by anger and desperation alike, uncaring for his technique. It doesn’t really matter anyway, none of them are making any effort to advance and fight back. He wonders if Jaskier fought back, if he went out kicking and screaming, teeth and nails and that flimsy dagger Geralt had gifted him for self-defense swinging. It wasn’t enough, in hindsight. Of course it wasn’t fucking enough. 

Geralt should have taught him to handle a proper sword. Should have bought him armor and forced him to wear it rather than those ridiculous fine silks. He... he should have _been there_. 

His hand shakes where it holds his sword. He’s sure it’s never done that before.

The ones in the garden taken care of, Geralt turns his gaze on the child. He reminds himself that it isn’t a child, despite its appearance, that it’s likely as old as he is. It cries like a child though, as he stalks toward it and waits for it to make a move. They’re not defenseless, especially not in such numbers, so it’s beyond him why none have attempted to attack him back. There are more of them now, running out from the woods and the barn, but they don’t attack. They hang back, watching him corner one of their own like a helpless fawn. It says all he needs to know about their loyalty to each other.

He addresses the lot of them.

He’s sure at least some of them remember his face, remember what they did to him… what they took away from him. He wants them to tremble in fear, to realize how personal this is. He wants them to hear _his_ name and regret ever daring to touch him.

“You took something from me. Something I treasured. Now I will take _everything_ from you.” He snarls, pouncing forward just as the young-looking vampire gets its feet below itself and attempts to run. It’s fast, inhumanly fast, fast enough that without his potion he may have trouble catching it as it darts back toward the shelter of the house.

Not fast enough to get away from him though. 

He swings at it and clips its foot, knocks it off its feet and sends it face-first into the dirt. When it rolls over onto its back to stare up at him, with wide blue eyes and blonde hair falling in ringlets, it’s enough to send him for a pause. It makes him think of Ciri, alone at the inn, waiting on him to return. She looks up to him so, not unlike Jaskier had once upon a time. He wonders what she would think if she saw him now, bloodied and feral, drawing his sword on creatures that aren’t even making an effort to fight back.

But they’re not _just_ creatures. They’re… they smell like hurt, like loss, like _heartbreak_. He’ll never forget that smell for as long as he lives. He’s been through battles that left him piecing himself back together, he’s been tortured and beaten, manipulated like putty in other’s hands to do their bidding. He’s seen what monsters are capable of, the devastation and destruction they leave in their path. He’s also seen the cruelty of man so intimately he’s not sure which is worse.

But nothing, not in his entire life, has ever undone him like losing Jaskier.

It broke him, in a way he’s not sure _can_ be pieced back together. It taught him that in all his years and with all he’d felt, he’d hardly grazed the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what emotions are capable of doing to a person. He’d been blind, neglectful and clinging to oblivion on purpose. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t _want_ to learn new ways to hurt himself. It was bound to end in disaster, witchers were never granted the gift of a happy ending, not with anyone.

And yet, despite himself, he’d let the bard wheedle his way into his life.

Not even denial could save him from the heartbreak, no matter how tightly he’d clung to it.

All denial had done was poison him with regret, with a long list of ways he should have done things differently when it was all said and done and he had no way of changing it. His denial hadn’t lent him any strength, it’d simply taken away one of the very few opportunities he’d been given to have happiness in the moment. And now he had _nothing_. 

In a way, it was his own fault as much as the vampires for not saying anything when he was able to.

But it’s much, much easier to place the blame on someone else, to make it as simple as killing monsters.

Feelings were always so much more complicated than monsters.

He presses the tip of his blade to the young vampire’s throat, watches the pale skin shiver and tremble against it, blood welling to the surface that likely hasn’t been her own in years. Geralt’s scowl deepens further somehow. The gall she has, to lie there and cry, to mourn her life when it’s so utterly valueless compared to what Jaskier’s had been.

“This is for Jaskier.” Geralt growls out through his teeth, is sadistically pleased to see the recognition dawn in her eyes, confirming what he already knows. These vampires are the ones to murder his friend in cold blood. Any remorse he might have felt for his animalistic actions is irrelevant now. They’re simply getting what’s coming to them. “I will slaughter every last one of you. I’ll gut your lifeless bodies and bathe in your entrails. And I’ll damn well enjoy it. Tonight? Tonight _I’m_ the monster.”

With that, Geralt draws back his sword, prepared to finish the third vampire with one brutal swing.

Only, he doesn’t get the chance to. He’s let his guard down, thinking himself invincible when no one is making any move to oppose him. There’s only a split second between hearing the approaching and feeling the strength of the tackle, a body colliding with his with so much force it knocks the air from his lungs and his sword from his hands. Damn it, damn it, damn it-

He hits the ground hard enough to bruise, forehead colliding with a sharp rock jutting out of the dirt, and the smell of his blood taints the air like a wave. He goes tense, entire body drawing up into a defensive posture beneath his attacker, trying and failing to wrench his arms free and attempt to protect his vitals, or at the very least smear mud in his wound and try to mask the smell.

It’s no use, though. The scent of his blood is strong even to him, hyped up on potions and filled with so much life and adrenaline, to a vampire it must smell delectable. He knows it too, as he finally hears the other vampires begin to approach, growling and posturing amongst themselves as they wordlessly bicker over who’s to have at him first. Geralt struggles against his captor more, feeling their cool breath ghost across the nape of his neck, scenting him properly.

He’s going to die here, torn apart from twenty different directions at once.

The child vampire he’d been on the brink of slaughtering a moment before is now crowding closer to him, a curious little hand reaching toward his face. He lets out an indignant snarl as fingers press against his wound, irritating the torn flesh and gathering his blood. The vampire wears a wide smirk as she lifts her bloodied fingertips back to her face, fangs glinting as she parts her lips, tongue darting out to-

Just before she manages to get a taste of it, a hand darts out and grabs her wrist, slamming it forcefully back down into the dirt. She lets out a cry of pain and it’s so distracting it takes Geralt a few seconds to realize it was his captor to grab her, that the vampire let go of Geralt to stop her.

A stupid move, but Geralt isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Don’t you fucking dare try to touch him.” The man plastered across Geralt’s back snaps at her, low and guttural, bordering on a growl of sorts. Geralt begins to struggle against him, thrashing uselessly to buck him off, ignoring the pounding of his head. For the most part, he’s unsuccessful. He jostles the man and dislodges him more than once, but he’s back on top of Geralt in the blink of an eye, crowding over him like, like he’s… protecting him. From the others. “He’s _mine_.”

“But-”

“Go. Away from here. Leave us be.” And now that his captor’s voice isn’t bent up into something animal and mangled, it actually sounds _familiar_. The gears in Geralt’s brain turn, too quick and restless, the effects of the potion still hitting him full-force. Though, even before he reaches a conclusion and accepts it as true, he finds himself beginning to relax. “All of you. Leave!”

“Understood, Julian.” Someone says, and Geralt’s face is pressed into the dirt at just the right angle to watch as someone comes over and hauls the young-looking girl away. She protests louder the further she gets from Geralt, clearly lacking the control to turn away from his blood, which garners that she is in fact a new vampire and can’t be all that much older than her appearance suggests. Besides, only a new member to a coven would be so foolish as to even attempt to deny their leader… and Geralt is pretty sure that that’s who he has pressed up against his back.

Geralt slumps against the ground, panting heavily to catch his breath after his struggle. If he listens closely, he notices the complete lack of sound around them, and it confirms his suspicion pretty well that the man crowded up against him must be a respected authority figure for them to listen and clear out that fast despite the temptation. New or old vampire, it’s hard to resist the pull of blood once it’s already been spilled, and Geralt has it on good authority that his blood is stronger and livelier than most, thanks to some less than desirable past encounters with the vampire kind.

And now that they’re alone together, Geralt finds himself holding his breath, unsure what to expect to come of it. The vampire pinning him isn’t rough about it now and he’s certain he could break away if he truly made an effort, but he stays damningly still as a statue. His eyes close as he concentrates, listens as closely as he can and hears the shallow breaths of the vampire behind him. Shaky. 

Geralt takes a page from the vampire’s book and inhales deeply, realing honing his senses to focus on the man behind him. It’s faint, painstakingly so, even to a witcher, but beneath the death and the blood clinging to the man’s skin there’s something else. Something unique. Something that’s carried over with him from his past life as a human. Something… _very_ familiar. 

And as if he hasn’t just confirmed it for himself, the man behind him speaks again, his voice completely his own now. It’s soft and gentle, reverent, melodic in a way that only a honed and talented singer’s can truly be. It aches, hearing the fondness in his tone, like nothing’s changed and it’s only been hours apart rather than seasons.

“ _Gods_ , Geralt.” Jaskier whispers, sounding for all intents and purposes like _he’s_ the one pinned down and struggling to draw a breath. Though he knows Jaskier, trusts him well, there’s a distinctly unhinged aura about him now, something lurking beneath the surface of his control. There’s desire leaching into his voice so heavily that a full-body shiver wracks Geralt’s frame. In all his life, he’s never had a partner say his name like that, like a prayer and a promise in one. “You smell… _delectable_.”

Not for the first time in his life, Geralt’s words fail him. 

A hitched little noise catches in his throat and stays there.

He expects Jaskier to bite him. He’s not sure if the anticipation building for it is dread or excitement, though he’d never admit to that. He can honestly say, his curiosity has never gotten the better of him in a situation such as this, made him ponder the bite with anything more than begrudged acceptance of the inevitable. He’s been bitten by a Garkain, nasty experience that was, he’d never in his life wish for a repeat of it. He’d even been bitten by a Bruxa once, after drunkenly falling into bed with the beautiful woman and failing to realize what she was, what her intentions were.

But never has he welcomed the _bite_ of it.

Say what you will, Geralt is no masochist. He’s familiar with pain, accepts it as a necessary part of the life he leads, but he never welcomes it. 

Only, Jaskier _doesn’t_ bite him. 

He nuzzles in close to Geralt’s neck, noses along his pulse point and licks his lips audibly, inhales deeply like he’s drunk on the scent. And Geralt lets him, tense down to his core, his instincts warring with himself to fight it and yet something much stronger keeping him in place. Jaskier even mouths across his jugular, his lips gentle to contrast the heavy weight of his fangs behind them.

But there his fangs stay, the extent of their sharpness covered.

“I must say, _bravo_. What a show.” Jaskier says against his skin, and his voice is all light and airy, amused in a way that’s also achingly familiar. It’s at Geralt’s expense, he knows, he hasn’t been so long without Jaskier that he’s forgotten how the bard’s incessant teasing goes. He can probably smell it in Geralt’s blood, how ready he was to submit to the bite, how eager he was. Damn it.

“ _Hm_.”

“You always said _I_ was the one with a flair for the dramatics, but perhaps performance is your calling after all. You gave them quite the fright, big scary witcher, you.”

“ _Jaskier_ .” Geralt groans, exasperation crawling through him. Ah yes, _that’s_ familiar too. He almost missed it, in a strange way. Perhaps he is a masochist after all.

“Here’s the thing, Geralt, my friends don’t fancy having a sword swung at them in greeting. For the sake of setting an example, I’m afraid I’m going to have to apprehend you until you calm down.”

“ _Friends_ ?” The question springs past his lips unbidden, but he can’t find it within himself to regret asking it. It’s been at the forefront of his mind since the very moment he realized who this was, that Jaskier was alive… er, sort-of. He just can’t wrap his head around it. Jaskier is the pettiest person he knows. There’s no way that man would befriend his captors, would see them as anything less than monsters for what they’ve done to him and taken from him. It doesn’t make _sense_.

Have they brainwashed him _that_ terribly?

"Here you are, face pressed to the dirt with a set of fangs making a home for themselves against your jugular, and yet you worry for me." Jaskier sounds pained, in a way. Geralt has a hunch that his words were meant to come across as something more teasing, but they don’t land anywhere near that realm of lighthearted. This isn’t a moment for teasing and joking, though Jaskier has always struggled to identify the difference between matters of the heart and matters of jest. In fact, he seems to merge them into one category altogether, never taking himself fully seriously. 

"Jas, the day I fear you is the day I hang up my sword and armor for good."

And that, of all things, is what lands as humorous. Jaskier tips his head back into the night air and laughs so hard Geralt can feel the force of it against him, he shakes with it, from head to toe. It’s bright and airy, alight with amusement in a way that was rare to see even during the best of their travels together. It’s… the best thing Geralt has heard in months. He can’t help it, an infectious smile creeping across his lips and lingering there.

"Oh, how I've missed you and your unbelievably dry sense of humor, my dear friend."

As soon as Jaskier gets a handle on his laughter, his hands land harshly on Geralt’s shoulders and flip him with little struggle. It happens so quickly, even Geralt startles the slightest bit. He can’t say he minds it really though, when he finds himself splayed out on his back in the mud, finally able to see for his own eyes that Jaskier is _truly_ the one settled on top of him.

He’s… different. That’s to be expected, of course, but it still throws Geralt for a loop as he hungrily drinks in all the minute shifts in appearance. Jaskier doesn’t look any older, predictably, but he does look much more confident than his years used to suggest. He’s grinning and smirking, but none of it is false bravado anymore, it’s genuine. He looks _good_ , with well-groomed stubble smattered across his jawline, visible muscle definition to his arms, and his cornflower blue eyes brighter than Geralt has maybe ever seen them.

Sure, his pallor is so intense it borders on the sickly side, but that’s not necessarily a _new_ development.

“You’re one of them.”

“What gave it away? My ageless skin? My effortless strength keeping you pinned? My-”

“You smell lifeless.” Geralt answers. Bluntly.

“Oh, how disappointing, to think I wasted all those rose petals in my bath for nothing.” Jaskier sighs like a maiden, as if it were a mere inconvenience that he’s now dead. Geralt grunts, doesn’t laugh, isn’t sure he’s anywhere near ready to laugh at such a sore subject. Jaskier must understand, his lips curling into a slight frown, and Geralt can just make out the outline of his fangs behind them. They’re massive things, vampire fangs, impractical in reality, and Geralt has never wanted to see them up close and personal so badly in his entire life. “Are you going to try to slaughter me if I let you up?”

“Hm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“And my friends?” 

“I’m not going to kill them either… yet.”

“Well, I suppose that’s really as amicable as you get, so it’ll have to do.” Jaskier relents, clambering off of Geralt and sitting beside him. Once they’re both straightened up and facing each other, the reality of the situation hits again and Geralt has to curl his nails into the beds of his palms near hard enough to bleed, to keep himself from reaching out and cradling Jaskier to his chest. He never wants to let the bard out of his sight again after this. “Hello. Long time no see.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt breathes his name as quietly as his voice allows, like it’s a fragile thing prone to break if handled too harshly. He shifts closer in the dirt, onto his knees, and brings his hands to either side of Jaskier’s face. And Jaskier lets him, even closes his eyes and leans into the touch. But his fangs are still present, slid down from his gums, their outline visible behind his lips. “What did they _do_ to you?”

“I’m sure you’re well aware of how a vampire is made, Geralt.”

“I’ll kill them.” Geralt informs him, his hands dropping as he turns to scope out a quick three-sixty of their surroundings in case there are any vampires lingering within killing reach. He means it. He doesn’t care if Jaskier is brainwashed to believe they’re good people, Geralt knows they’re not. Anyone who would dare to take Jaskier from him, to drive a wrench between them that lasts months… they have to be terrible.

“They’re already dead.” Jaskier says then, voice meek like the topic makes him altogether uncomfortable to speak about. Maybe it does. It was surely a traumatic time for him as much as it was for Geralt. The bard had never been the bravest of people, despite the fact he insisted on accompanying Geralt on all of his adventures, knowing full-well what the risks were. For a long time, Geralt thought that he had stupidity aplenty, to make up for the lack of bravery. Now he’s left wondering if Jaskier’s loyalty was something else entirely, something Geralt had been painfully blind to until he was gone.

“How?”

“Another witcher beat you to it. Slaughtered the whole coven, not a single one survived. I only managed to escape it because they had me locked up in a hidden basement room while I was turning. I was far enough below the surface that even the witcher didn’t sniff me out.” Jaskier sounds faraway as he recalls the memory and it pains Geralt to watch as he retreats into himself. There’s no doubt in his mind now that the entire thing had left Jaskier well and truly traumatized, despite the confidence he seems to exude now. The wound is old by now, but it’s never fully healed, a mangled scar of dead tissue and bad memories left behind. Geralt is well-aware of what that’s like.

“So you spent the first part of your new life alone?” Geralt asks, even though it pains him to know.

In truth, Geralt doesn’t know the full extent of what the transformation entails. He’d heard rumors, seen scribbled texts that were more assumptions than facts, but there isn’t much known about vampires unless you were to ask them directly. Until now, that hadn’t seemed like an option. Even now, Geralt doesn’t dare to ask questions, not when he can see the horror in Jaskier’s eyes just from recalling what must be a horrible memory.

He knows it’s painful. He knows the odds are slim for humans to be compatible with the venom enough to even withstand it, that oftentimes it ends up eating away at them from the inside out once it’s put into their veins. He knows it takes hours, possibly days, for it to fully take effect. The thought of Jaskier being utterly alone, spending days in agony, unsure of what was happening to him and whether he’d even survive it in the end… it’s enough for something in the broken parts of Geralt to shift.

Something protective and fierce wells up inside of him, strong enough to make his eyes burn.

Witchers don’t cry. It’s been decades since he has. Even when he’d lost Jaskier, when he’d driven himself to the brink of madness searching for him and drinking himself into a stupor, he hadn’t _cried_. It wasn’t a liberty witchers allowed themselves to take. But now, thinking of what Jaskier went through because Geralt wasn’t there for him when he was needed most… it’s the most ashamed he’s ever felt.

He doesn’t cry, but he must get close enough to it that Jaskier can smell the shift in his mood, or perhaps the saltwater where it’s threatening to multiply. He goes rigid, looking at Geralt like he’s grown a second head, like he’s the one sitting here as a completely different species than the last time they’d spoken. 

“Hey, none of that pitying stuff.” Jaskier informs him, reaching over to slap him on the shoulder like that alone will be enough to undo all that’s been done. Geralt just gives him an exasperated look, eyebrows raised high and eyes full of doubt, disbelieving that Jaskier could even think for a second that what he’s feeling right now is pity.

“I don’t pity you. I admire your courage, your strength. You went through far worse than what I did and you did it gracefully. You never should have had to, I should have been there… but you did it.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier sighs, his tone clipped. “Look at me. I’m right here. I made it. I’m a survivor. What happened to me was not your fault anymore than it was mine. I knew the danger I was putting myself into accompanying you, I agreed to it willingly. I don’t blame you for what happened, not at all.”

It should bring some relief. It really, really should. Unfortunately, it only raises more questions, and they’re hurtful and raw questions, the kind of things no self-respecting witcher would be caught asking while sober. He should bite his tongue. He should tell himself not to wonder. It doesn’t matter, he’s here now, Jaskier is here now and-

“Then why didn’t you come back to me?” 

“Geralt, you can’t seriously think-” But Jaskier cuts himself off, must see something in Geralt’s pained expression that answers his question for him. He closes his mouth slowly, licks his lips, his gaze intent and heavy where it stays glued to Geralt’s face. Whatever’s being displayed there must be the most fascinating thing Jaskier has ever seen, his blue eyes boring into Geralt’s for minutes before he manages to produce a single word. “You want to know why I didn’t come back to you? Forgive me for assuming, but I was under the impression that you weren’t exactly _fond_ of monsters. I wasn’t keeping my distance because I _wanted_ to, you see, I thought it was what was best for both of us. I thought… you wouldn’t _want_ me to come back, as I am now. And I couldn’t take the pain of reaching out only to be driven away.” 

There’s a plea in there somewhere. A plea for understanding, a plea for forgiveness, a plea for the reassurance he’s needed for so long that Geralt sees him as more than a pest now.

And Geralt intends to answer it, to answer all of his pleas for the rest of his days, but there’s just one thing he wants to make sure of first. He turns, focuses until finally he notices the shift of movement in the trees, gives himself the confirmation that the feeling of being watched wasn’t just paranoia.

Geralt looks to Jaskier, lifting his hand again and letting his fingertips trace high cheekbones.

“Can we talk? Somewhere private?”

“Yes, of course.”

\--

It’s a quaint little space, Jaskier’s basement bedroom. It looks like it might have been a wine cellar at some point, with stonework for the walls and floors alike. Somehow, despite the lack of windows and dampness to the air, Jaskier has managed to decorate it in such a way that it hardly feels like a dark dungeon at all. It’s spacious and colorful, with fine drapery lining the walls and intricate carpeting on the floor. It’s a dark space, but the candles littering most every surface make up for what a witcher’s heightened senses cannot. It’s altogether nice, in a very Jaskier way, and so Geralt invites himself inside and into one of the plush chairs in the corner of the room.

Jaskier doesn’t sit. He hovers, fidgeting around the room, tidying and preparing a snack for Geralt of whatever old wine and cheese is still kicking around from the house’s previous living owners. Geralt watches him work with intrigue, the way his lithe body all but floats across the room. He’s eerily silent on his feet compared to the clumsy way he’d lumbered around before.

Deciding that now is as good a time as any to start asking questions, Geralt doubles over and starts undoing the laces of his boots, primed to get comfortable and stay for a while.

"How did you come across your companions, Jas? Vampirism isn't exactly a volunteer business."

"I turned them, you're not wrong in assuming that." Jaskier’s voice is impassive, impossible to read as he wills it so. He never used to have such a good control over his emotions, Geralt can’t help but wonder if the afterlife has dulled them, or if he’s simply adapted to survive that way. Now he has an idea of how Jas always felt around him, second-guessing and clinging to any context clues he could find.

“May I ask _why_? Just loneliness?” 

"They're war veterans, Geralt. Soldiers and civilians alike that were given the short end of the stick. The smell of blood brings me to many a fresh battlefield, you see, I prefer to do my feeding on the least living soul I can find. But these men and women… they were still alive, but barely. Bodies beaten beyond recognition, limbs cut clean off their frame, bleeding out into the dirt and left there in agony until their hearts gave out. I couldn't leave them like that. You have to understand. Any fate is greater than that being their final moments. And they've all agreed, they follow me loyally, they're eternally thankful for what I've done. Not that I expected it to happen when I turned them, but it seems I've garnered myself a coven of my own.”

“Hm.” Geralt gives a thoughtful hum of sorts, coming to grips with the new information. It’s a strange thing to picture, Jaskier coming to the rescue on the battlefield, caring for the wounded and bringing them into their new life. He supposes it makes sense, in a way. Jaskier _had_ always been the caring and nurturing type. And though he’d vehemently denied the idea when Geralt told him he should, he seemed the type to want to settle down, to start a family of his own. Once he’d had his fun, of course.

In truth, Geralt couldn’t think of a better leader for a coven of unhinged feral beings with a craving for blood, if only because Jaskier was the only person determined enough to fight for his right to be softhearted, no matter the circumstances. He’d always done such a good job taking care of Geralt, bossing him around into bathing and eating regular amounts, demanding he be allowed to care for Geralt’s wounds as if he were something breakable and not a battle-born mutant designed to maim and murder. Jaskier treated everything with such kindness, it was a rebellious act in itself.

Jaskier seems to misinterpret Geralt’s line of thought, as he slides into the seat across from him and settles a tray of snacks on the table between them. He rushes to come to his own defense.

“There aren’t as many of them as it likely seemed. Few survive the transformation, as I’m sure you know well enough. Twenty of us total, counting myself and the two you slayed like pigs to slaughter. We’re not a threat to anyone, I promise you th-”

“How many more were there?” Geralt cuts him off harshly. “That _didn’t_ survive the transformation?”

“Countless.” Jaskier goes a little rigid at the question, sits up taller in his seat and meets Geralt’s gaze directly for the first time since he sat down. But Geralt doesn’t accept that answer, just keeps staring expectantly, waiting on a number. He needs to know. Needs to know the odds. “Hundreds, I suppose.”

“ _Hundreds_ .” Geralt repeats, staring unseeingly at the glass of wine in front of him. The red liquid sloshes back and forth against the walls of the glass each time Jaskier squirms in his seat. He can’t bring himself to look up at the other man now though, as his thoughts take a swim in the deep end. _Hundreds_.

“Have you ever seen a battlefield full of dying soldiers, Geralt? Men torn from their homes, their wives, their children, to fight for a cause they don’t even care for.” Jaskier is getting short with him now, overall agitated by the topic and Geralt’s withdrawn approach to it. “And then there were the towns pillaged by war... the women raped and beaten, the children caught and caged like animals. You don’t understand. After nearly dying myself, it put things in perspective. There was so much I had left to do, so much I desired. I knew it was the same for those people and I had the opportunity to try and give them another chance. Please don’t hold that against me. I know you wouldn’t do the same, but we’re different men, and I stand by every one of my decisions.”

“I wasn’t judging you.” Geralt tells him evenly, slowly, taking his sweet time to find and form the right words for the moment. His gaze darts up and locks with Jaskier’s, the vampire’s eyes already following his every movement with an innately predator-like intrigue. Geralt smiles at him, grabs his drink and tips it back. It feels good on his dry throat. He’d been starving when he arrived at the inn, but the moment he’d caught the scent of the vampires he’d dropped everything to follow. 

Thankfully, Jaskier seems to trust him, visibly relaxing again.

“Then why all the questions?”

“Merely pondering the odds. Hundreds bitten and only twenty turned. Seems impractical.”

“The venom is terribly inefficient that way. It was awful, trying to help these victims of unfortunate circumstances only for the universe to fail them a second time.” Jaskier explains with genuine anguish tainting his words. He looks down at his nails, idly picks the grit out from beneath them. Geralt watches him intently, doesn’t dare to look away, those dire odds still ringing loud and clear in his mind.

_Hundreds._

“You were very nearly the victim of unfortunate circumstances, you realize?” Geralt points out, unable to help himself. Jaskier startles slightly at the emotion wavering the words, their eyes meeting again and lingering. Geralt can’t help it, he stands from his seat and crosses the small space, stands in front of Jaskier and stares down at him. “The fact you’re sitting here before me at all is a miracle.”

“Miracle.” Jaskier repeats with a scoff, shaking his head. “Miracle my ass. It’s been a nightmare, Geralt. It’s been hell on earth, training myself not to be the murderous monster I thought I was, alone with a body I barely even recognized anymore, thinking that if our paths ever crossed again you’d smite me down like I deserved it. Gods, sometimes I _really_ thought I deserved it.”

“You didn’t.” Geralt insists, and on this, his voice doesn’t waver. 

“I’ve _hurt_ people.” 

“You can’t be blamed for instinct. The fact you’ve fought it as much as you have is admirable.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier suits him with a desperate look, like he’ll die if he’s not spared from this torment soon. It isn’t enough to deter Geralt, who can’t imagine what he’ll do if his words aren’t taken to heart. He needs Jaskier to understand, at any cost, that he’s not _bad_. What defines a man and what defines a monster is a discussion as old as time and though there are no set answers, Geralt knows that if anyone he’s ever met has been well and truly good down to their core, it’s been Jaskier. 

Geralt doesn’t relent, doesn’t take a step back to put space between them and make it easier, doesn’t turn tail and run like he might have during these emotional conversations before. 

“You did nothing wrong, Jaskier.” 

“I _killed_ people.” Jaskier hisses through his teeth, patience waning. “I drank them dry and I _enjoyed_ it.”

“You had no choice.”

“You _always_ have a choice, I just made the wrong one.”

“The choice wasn’t yours to make, it was taken away from you and put into someone else’s hands. You fought tooth and nail to get it back, to make up for the wrong you’d done. Isn’t that atonement enough for your sins? When will it be, if not now? What good will come of torturing yourself with it?”

“Ask the families of the people I _murdered_ , Geralt.” Jaskier snipes right back at him, hoisting himself up onto his feet and standing before him. It’s strange, how he hasn’t changed in size or stature whatsoever, and yet his presence possesses such a power to intimidate now. The way he holds himself, tall and firm, chin upturned toward him and scowl hardened in a way that it’d never been before.

There’s a confidence radiating off of him that’s almost enough to have Geralt rising to the challenge of putting him back in his place the easy way. Before, he’d always fallen back on intimidation tactics to handle the bard when he got ornery like this. Only problem is, he’s not sure it would even work now, given that they’re almost equally matched physically. Not to mention, he’s hoping to have entirely different results from this conversation than the ones he’d always had before. 

“Damn it, Jaskier, I thought you were dead!” Geralt curses, agitation growing.

“Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?! I am!”

“I thought I’d never see you again!”

“You’d likely be better off if you hadn’t!”

Jaskier realizes his misstep the moment the words have been said, but he still doesn’t have enough time to brace himself for the full bulk of Geralt slamming into him. 

They hit the floor together in a flurry of movement and tangled limbs, soft flesh hitting stone hard enough to leave bruises behind. Jaskier makes a pained noise as they fall, like he truly believes Geralt has just stabbed him, has reached the threshold for what he’s capable of putting up with and has decided murder is easier than deaing with Jaskier. His hands scramble across Geralt’s arms, claw-like nails scratching harshly against the leather of his armor as he attempts to pry him off.

Geralt just growls, rolls them until he’s on top of Jaskier, settled between the bard’s widespread legs. The apprehension hasn’t faded from Jaskier’s face, eyes blown wide with equal parts fear and obvious lust, hands brought up between them to keep Geralt at an arm’s distance. But there’s no strength behind it, Geralt moves to lean over him and the moment his chest collides with Jaskier’s hands, they crumple inward to be pressed uselessly between their bodies.

Geralt stretches over him until they’re face to face again, prowling up the length of his body in a series of languid, sinuous movements, not entirely unlike a jungle cat stalking prey. He leans in close, lets their breaths mingle, lets his eyes flutter closed as he savors Jaskier’s scent deep beneath the sterile blanket of death that clings to him like a second skin. Geralt grunts, low and pleased, a rumble in his chest.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ say that. Whether I’m better off with or without you, that’s not up to you to decide. It’s up to me.” Geralt tells him flatly, hissed through his teeth. “I _am_ listening to you. I know what you’re trying to say, but you’re wasting your breath. If you’re a monster, then so am I. You think I care about any of this? You think it changes how I _feel_ about you? The blood on your hands is the least of my concerns, Jaskier. I would have killed without thinking twice if it meant finding you sooner.”

The air between them is charged with something fierce and untameable, like the ground left sparking after a lightning storm. The current is zipping through the both of them, a pull that neither one is strong enough to fight against. It’s electric and primal alike, as natural as anything can be.

Geralt leans down, Jaskier gets his elbows underneath himself and bows up to meet him halfway.

“You don’t _mean_ that.” Jaskier whispers against his lips, eyes lidded with desire. Geralt brushes their noses together, rumbles something deep and sated under his breath. He’s not even sure what he’s said, but Jaskier’s eyes light up like he understands him better than he understands himself. Maybe he does.

“I searched. For _months_.” Geralt says finally, finding the words he needs. It’s never been so hard to concentrate as it is now, the length of Jaskier’s body finally, finally close to him again, closer than it’s ever been. It’s addictive and he wants to chase it, wants to get his fix and never go without again, press himself in so close and so tight that he and Jaskier will become one.

“I didn’t _know_.”

“I _begged_ the universe to bring you back to me, you bastard.” Geralt all but roars, torn out of him so suddenly it’s painful. He feels it from the tips of his toes upward, drowns in the weight of finally being able to say it, to be _heard_ . The sting of saltwater is back and this time he doesn’t fight it, he collapses into Jaskier and heaves with a silent sob, face buried into the soft fabric of his shirt. Jaskier is tense beneath him, but his hand comes up to weave deft fingers through Geralt’s hair, brushing it back from his face as he allows himself to be weak. _Oh so weak_.

“I didn’t _know_!”

“I have your lute.” Geralt says suddenly, voice full of conviction. He props himself upright, wipes the tears from his face with a scowl, the sensation so foreign after going a lifetime without. Jaskier is frozen beneath him now, like the sight of Geralt of Riva with teartracks staining his cheeks is something worthy of awe, or more likely when dealing with the bard, something to compose a song about. “I kept it. All this time. Couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the last part of you I had to my name.”

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier whines, tossing his head back and staring up at the ceiling above their heads.

Geralt descends upon him again, but this time he’s void of tears. He buries his face into the dip of Jaskier’s collarbones, breathes him in raggedly. It’s dizzying, how Jaskier’s body fits against his, pressed tight to his chest and molded to him. His legs are long and almost comically small by comparison where they wrap around Geralt’s waist, but the strength behind them is enough that Geralt knows he’s not going anywhere without explicit approval from Jaskier. He’s going to _bruise_. 

“Look at me.” Geralt tells him, gripping his jaw and turning it to face him. Jaskier blinks his eyes open, hazy and blackened, pupils eclipsing the blue of his irises as his bloodlust grows. Geralt stares deeply into those dark eyes, familiarizes himself with this new part of Jaskier, vows to love it just as much or more than the last. “Losing you was the _worst_ thing to ever happen to me. Don’t doubt that for a second.”

And with that, he claims Jaskier’s lips with his own for the first time.

It’s something he’s thought about a fair amount since the day they first met. The very first day, when Jaskier had marched up to him in the corner of that tavern, brazen as a whore and twice as impatient as one, Geralt had thought passingly about what it’d be like to kiss a mouth like that _quiet_ . The bard would have surely put up a fuss about it, would have gone all red in the face and tried to talk his way through it, frustrated when Geralt’s grip on his jaw was simply too strong to pull away from. And then, at long last, he would go blessedly silent and relax into it… giving in to that desperation _to please_ and _be praised for it_ that he wore like a crown atop his head.

Many times since, the thought had fleetingly crossed his mind, but it never seemed reasonable enough to risk everything else they had over something as simple as a kiss. Because Geralt, stunned as he was in matters of emotion, had never equated wanting to kiss Jaskier with anything more than the physical act of it. The concept of love as a whole had been a new, abstract concept to him those days, so of course he hadn’t associated it with Jaskier. He’d thought of his desire to kiss Jaskier as sort-of a sick curiosity that was begging to be sated, not entirely unlike wanting to find out how badly stinging nettles actually stung (they stung badly, as he found out), or how many times he had to teasingly withhold an apple before Roach would bite him (the answer was a stark and sure two, just two, and then she would sink her teeth into his palm like a damn carnivore).

The point being, Geralt is no stranger to the _idea_ of kissing Jaskier.

The reality of kissing Jaskier, however, is unlike anything his mind has ever conjured up.

Mostly because Jaskier isn’t eager to please and be praised, a sweet little thing in tune with Geralt’s wants and needs, dedicated to fulfilling them. And maybe he had been, before the vampirism, or perhaps he’d never been, but Geralt could hardly mourn the image of him from his mind’s eye while he was being effortlessly manhandled to the floor.

Jaskier flips them as easily as Geralt used to be able to do to him, barely a strain of effort. Geralt hits the ground hard and barely has time to wince before Jaskier is on him, clambering into his lap and making a home for himself there. He grips Geralt’s shirt hard enough to tear the buttons from their threads and send them scattering, barely aware of it as he divests all of his focus into taking Geralt apart at the seams as well with that wicked tongue.

He’d known Jaskier was good at kissing, at fucking. He’d witnessed it for himself after walking in on the bard with one of his many consorts a few too many times. Eventually, the novelty had worn off, and when Geralt came back to their shared room at the inn to Jaskier fucking a whore, he’d simply shrugged his shoulders and climbed into his own bed beside them, pretending to be completely indifferent to it while he laid there for hours on end resisting the urge to tug on his cock to thoughts of his one and only friend. That felt like crossing a line.

This, this also feels like crossing a line. Jaskier kisses him like he wants to taste every inch of him, to strip him bare and spread him open, indulge in him down to his core like a sweet. He kisses with bruising force, pressing their lips together like he’ll die if he doesn’t have it here and now, without anything between them. Geralt has never felt so exposed, so wholly _seen_ , naked down to his skin and then somewhere below that. 

His tongue is unfairly talented as it licks into Geralt’s mouth, twines with his in a teasing rhythm, too much too fast to the point of dizziness and then retreating until there’s nothing but a chaste press of lips to lips to focus on. Jaskier drives him fucking crazy at the best of times, why it comes as a surprise to see kissing is the same, Geralt will never know.

When he pulls away, Jaskier is already muttering nonsense under his breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Geralt. I didn’t _know_. I’m-”

“I missed you.” Geralt tells him, leaning back in and _feeling_ the way Jaskier’s entire body grows tight with anticipation against him, like a coil ready to spring. Geralt chuckles when he stops just short of kissing him again, instead kissing across the scruff of his jawline, getting used to the feeling of it scratching against his skin. Between kisses, he continues to layer on the reassurance, hands settling on Jaskier’s hips and keeping him right there on top of him. “I thought it’d _kill_ me, how much I missed you. It kept me up at night, kept me from my work, kept me searching every inn for your face. It was like being haunted, I looked for you in every corner of every room, but you were never there. I thought I’d lost you for good, my little lark.”

“I missed you too.” Jaskier says easily, like it’s a weight off his chest to admit. “So much. I thought of you every single day. I swear it was what got me through that blasted transformation. I didn’t want to die without seeing you again. There were so many stories left to tell, it made me sick thinking I’d miss out on them. Nevermind that I knew you’d blame yourself for my death, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave such a weight on your shoulders. But more than any of that, the thing that made me grit my teeth and fight through the most unimaginable pain this world has to offer… was the knowledge that I couldn’t go to my grave without telling you how I felt.”

“How do you feel, Jas?” Geralt prompts, allowing his hands to wander. He grips the hem of the bard’s shirt and then slides it up his stomach, exposing more and more tantalizing smooth, pale skin. Geralt can’t stop himself from exploring it, spreading his fingers wide and sliding his open palms over Jaskier’s stomach, feeling the way the cool skin jumps beneath his touch. Jaskier is trembling astride him, legs spread wide, Geralt’s hard cock pressed to his arse through the layers between them. He knows that Jaskier must be able to feel it, feel how hard he’s gotten him.

“Geralt, I lo-” Jaskier pauses, pouts and clamps his mouth shut. “All that talk and now I can’t even _say_ it.”

“Don’t say it then, show it.” Geralt suggests darkly, a smirk pulling at his bitten-red lips.

“We shouldn’t.” But even as he says it, Jaskier is swatting Geralt’s hands away only to do their bidding for them, pulling his shirt off in one smooth movement. It hits the floor on the other side of the room seconds later and Jaskier is sitting there blissfully bare from the waist up. Geralt can’t help himself, he bolts upright, yanks Jaskier into his lap more forcibly and groans with it.

Their cocks slot together and even with their trousers in the way, the friction of it is heaven-sent, has them both chasing the sensation with greedy determination. Geralt starts to buck his hips upward in the same instant that Jaskier starts to writhe down against him, until they’re moving together in one filthy grind, as smooth and easy as a wave lapping against the shore.

“Fuck.” Geralt growls, bowing his head to bury it back into the curve of Jaskier’s neck. He imagines it must go against some innate instinct, to be a vampire and to welcome another’s mouth to the cradle of your pulse point, but Jaskier doesn’t do much more than keen his approval and so he doesn’t stop. He mouths across soft skin, starts out lavishing it with the kinds of kisses he’s given to all of his lovers over the years, sweet praises for taking care of him so well. And, when Jaskier starts to squirm in his lap, his hips jerking with growing urgency… Geralt guesses what he wants and gives it to him much harsher than he’s ever dared to with another lover.

Geralt bears his teeth against Jaskier’s skin, makes sure he knows it’s coming before it happens, just in case he’s misread the situation. It’s clear he hasn’t though, when Jaskier stills against him, forgets about the friction of their cocks rubbing together entirely and instead focuses on what Geralt’s mouth is doing.

He leans his head to the side, a wordless offering. Geralt bites down onto his neck as hard as he dares before the skin threatens to give. And then he does it again. And then again. Biting and nipping at the entire length of Jaskier’s neck, until it’s visibly reddening before his eyes, little indents left behind from every individual tooth, looking well and truly mauled. And Geralt can’t help it, something deep within him absolutely preens at seeing Jaskier so _claimed_. Dare anyone to touch him again when Geralt’s mark is all over him, head to toe.

“You’re sure about this?” Jaskier asks him then, while he’s taking a second to admire his work. It isn’t an unusual question to ask given the circumstances, but the tone itself is. There’s an air of doubt there, like he somehow still expects Geralt to turn away from this. It doesn’t make sense.

“Why the hell _wouldn’t_ I be?”

“Geralt, I’m a _vampire_. The very thing your kind are brought into this world to exterminate. What kind of witcher would you be to lay with a monster?” There’s a hint of exasperation to his voice, like Jaskier isn’t enjoying having to spell it out for him. But if he hadn’t, there’s no way Geralt ever would have guessed his concerns, because they hadn’t even crossed his mind. Nothing could keep him from this, not now.

Geralt cups his cheek.

“To love a monster.” The moment the words leave Geralt’s lips, Jaskier’s eyes go comically wide, a noise akin to a whimper slipping past his lips.

Jaskier may have his hang-ups that keep him from saying it, but Geralt certainly doesn’t. 

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier whines, landing a flimsy hit to Geralt’s chest. It only earns him a breathy laugh as Geralt lays back against the floor, relaxed. Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head fondly. His fist uncurls where it rests on Geralt’s chest so his touch can linger. He trails his fingers through light chest hair, idly traces a few of the scars littering Geralt’s skin. 

Eventually, his eyes flutter open so their gazes can lock again. “Enough. None of that. My heart may no longer beat, but it’ll certainly find a way to implode if you keep that up. Go back to pretending you haven’t the faintest clue what a human emotion is and show some mercy on me, would you?” 

“I’m not sure that’s a promise I can make. It’ll be hard to stop myself now that I’ve started.”

“But aren’t witchers supposed to be above the weakness of feeling? That’s what you always said before, when I accused you of harboring hidden emotions. Hm?”

“Some witchers, perhaps, but not this one.”

“Are you saying I’ve ruined you, Geralt?” Jaskier whispers against his lips, light and airy, teasing. Geralt gives a quiet grunt, pressing their lips together again, and then again, and then once more for good measure. Jaskier meets each kiss with growing enthusiasm, until he’s back to rocking down against Geralt, hands threaded into his hair. They separate long enough for Geralt to draw a breath, and he uses that time to belatedly respond.

“Hardly.” He whispers, staring adoringly up at Jaskier. “If anything, you’ve mended me.”

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt.” Jaskier sounds almost wounded by it, the severity of Geralt’s feelings and the way it pours into his words. There is a possibility he’s coming on too strong, something he’s never had to worry about in the past, but it’s never felt like this before. Besides, Jaskier is the human embodiment of coming on too strong, Geralt doubts he would be the type to be bothered by straightforwardness.

“I’m hoping to, yes.” Geralt responds around a smirk, sliding his hands up Jaskier’s bare arms, relishing the closeness between them. His heart is a slow and steady drum within his chest that he’s painstakingly aware of, faster than it usually is given his excitement. Where Jaskier’s would have been a stuttering and flighty thing before, now there’s silence, and Geralt can’t help but miss it. It made it a whole lot easier to read him, to understand his intentions. “As long as you want to?”

“Oh, I definitely do.” Jaskier nods, blinking back into awareness suddenly, withdrawn from whatever part of his mind he’d been processing things in. “Never wanted anything as much as I wanted you.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Why complicate it more than it has to be?” Geralt growls out, grabbing at his thighs and pulling him back down against his lap. They both gasp in unison, Jaskier’s nails digging into Geralt’s shoulders beneath his shirt.

“Okay, okay, all these years I knew you were a horny bastard, just never thought I’d have to deal with it being directed at me.” Jaskier gasps, scrambling to tear Geralt’s shirt from his frame. It slides to the floor in tatters of fabric and Geralt doesn’t even feel the loss, only smirks in amusement. Jaskier had always been over-eager and desperate when he imagined scenarios like this and at the very least, that lives up to expectation. 

Reluctantly, Geralt rolls Jaskier off of him and to the floor. He’s on his feet in a second, undoing the laces of his breeches and shoving them hastily down his legs. Jaskier looks up at him as he undresses, eyes dark with lust, drinking in the sight. Geralt meets his eyes expectantly, but Jaskier makes no effort to stand or kick his pants off. “There’s something you should know.” 

“ _What_?” He can’t help it, the impatience is audible in his tone.

“I’m relatively young in terms of vampires, so there are some things that are taking me longer than others to figure out. One of which, is how to bite into a vein without missing on the first try, but more importantly-”

“Out with it, Jaskier.” 

“Since turning, sex and feeding are closely tied, primal sort-of urges, and as such the line between both gets blurry. When the blood starts flowing, it’s hard for me to distinguish between the two.” He barely stops to breathe, all of the words rushing out of his mouth rapid-fire. Geralt stares at him for a long moment afterward, making sure he understands. The guilty look on Jaskier’s face really says it all though, like he knows for a fact that he won’t be able to control himself and he’s apologizing in advance for it.

“Hm.” And with that, Geralt drops his undergarments to his feet.

There’s a sharp intake of breath and then Jaskier is scrambling onto his feet, apparently shy about being eye-level with Geralt’s cock rather than his face. In his defense, Geralt knows it can be a bit intimidating the first time someone sees it, he’s had many a whore tell him as much to his face. Though, he’d hardly pegged Jaskier as someone who knew their limits.

“I-I don’t think you understand.” Jaskier stutters, avoiding letting his gaze drop below the waistline. Geralt grumbles in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was hanging onto my self-control by a thread earlier to keep from getting my head severed and to protect my own. But, in a setting like this, where my inhibitions are already lowered and I’m not thinking clearly I’ll- _I’ll_ _bite_ , Geralt.”

“And I heal fast. Take what you need from me.” Geralt grunts, stepping closer and reaching for Jaskier’s belt. There’s no verbal objections, but Jaskier has grown quite quiet, so just to be safe Geralt’s eyes flick up to his imploringly, looking for any sign of discomfort. He’s pleasantly surprised to find the opposite, Jaskier’s eyes glazed over, his lips distended around the shape of his fangs once more. 

Oh. Well. That makes sense, Geralt supposes. 

“Fuck.” Jaskier breathes finally, shaky and unbalanced. 

“That’s my line.” Geralt jokes, hands clumsily working to undo Jaskier’s belt, the other man making no effort to aid him in his efforts. He ends up leading Jaskier back against a nearby counter, giving him something to balance on as his trousers are tugged hastily down his thighs.

“I’ve imagined this… so many times. You have no idea. It kept me up at night, lying in the same cheap bed next to you, wishing we were doing this instead. Fuck, your hands Geralt, they could have snapped me clean in half and I wanted them _everywhere_. Wanted to be thoroughly owned by you in every sense of the word.” Jaskier is rambling now, but it’s not nervous, it’s casual and easy. It’s odd, how natural it feels to add sex to their relationship. It’s no different than sitting side-by-side late at night around the fire, after setting up camp and settling in. Jaskier is as chatty in the bedroom as he is out of it, and as always, he’s the exception to Geralt’s rule of preferring silence to conversation.

He hums in acknowledgement, kneeling to pull Jaskier’s boots off and to slide his last two layers of clothing past his feet. Only, the trousers won’t budge, and Geralt grows increasingly more irritated tugging on them. Until Jaskier giggles above him and then the agitation leaves him in one heavy, fond exhale. He looks up, meets Jaskier’s loving gaze. 

“Are you going to help me or what?” Geralt grits out, but it only makes Jaskier laugh harder. 

“My beautiful white wolf. I’ve been in love with you for so long.”

_Apparently_ he’s gotten over whatever was holding him back before. 

Geralt swallows hard, tries not to let his voice waver when he responds.

“Of course you’d prattle on poetry about the act, rather than speed it along when I’m trying to get you naked. I should have expected as much.” 

“Geralt, come on. Humor me.”

“What?”

“Earlier, I know I said that I wanted you to pretend you were above human emotion, but I’ve changed my mind since. I want to hear you say it. In plain terms. Please.” Jaskier pleads with him, a complete contrast to how he’d been moments before. He was as contradicting and hard to follow as always. Maybe he’d thought himself undeserving before, maybe he’d thought Geralt wasn’t being completely honest about the nature of his affections. Geralt will never know, try as he may to understand how Jaskier’s mind works, he’s come to terms with it remaining a mystery. 

“Why?”

“I just want to hear it.” Jaskier is pouting now, pretty bottom lip jutted out, the tips of his white fangs pressing into soft pink. Geralt’s gaze zeroes in on it and somehow, he feels like he’s the hungry one out of the two of them. “Before I lose myself to… this. Skin on skin, the lust for you and your blood alike.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Geralt leans forward and rests his forehead against Jaskier’s thigh. A hand comes down and strokes through his hair, no doubt trying to comfort and coax him through it. It’d come so naturally earlier, but now Jaskier is looking at him with those big blue eyes, like he’s hanging onto every single word like a lifeline. The pressure is heavy.

Still, Geralt _wants_ to say it. He wants Jaskier to hear it, to believe it. He deserves that much.

“I love you, Jaskier.” Geralt manages finally, amber eyes darting up to stare into Jaskier’s.

“W-Wow, the novelty is never gonna wear off, is it?” Jaskier croaks out, cupping Geralt’s face between his hands and keeping it there. Eventually, he relents, leaning back against the counter and tugging his tight pants off in one quick shuck, making Geralt wonder if there’s some secret clasp he’d been unaware of that’d had him struggling so. “Okay, thank-you for humoring me, now we’d best hurry up and get my cock out before I sully my trousers.”

His last two layers of clothing hit the ground in unison and then he’s standing there before Geralt, naked from head to toe. He’s all subtle curves and lean muscle, striking like a warrior carved from marble, not a single imperfection marring his pretty skin aside from Geralt’s marks on his neck. 

His cock is hard, standing tall and proud, curved toward his navel with dark wiry hair framing it. It’s an impressive size, the kind of cock that would fit just right in Geralt’s mouth, not so much as to risk choking himself, but enough to feel the stretch and the weight of it. Naturally, Jaskier’s cock is as perfectly suited to Geralt’s tastes as the rest of him is. Or maybe Geralt’s tastes have simply shifted to tailor to Jaskier. 

“Fuckin’ finally.” Geralt groans, leaning forward to immediately take Jaskier into his mouth. There’s a startled yelp above him, followed by a throaty moan that sounds far too deep for Jaskier to make, and then the hands are back in his hair and tugging. Geralt growls at the sensation, unsure whether it’s the best or the worst thing to ever happen to him, a shiver running down his spine at each sharp tug to the root of his hair. Truth be told, none of his previous lovers had ever been brave enough to attempt to touch his hair, and he never gave the impression that it might be on the table. Even Yennefer had limited herself to a few odd tugs, nothing as overbearing and confident as Jaskier is doing now, like he’s perfectly certain that Geralt is enjoying himself.

Hell, maybe Geralt is.

“P-Patience has never been your forte, has it?” Jaskier squeaks out, hips already attempting to rock forward, cock leaking a steady amount of pre-cum across Geralt’s tongue. He’s already hard enough for his cock to be twitching, his orgasm fast approaching. “Have you ever _heard_ of foreplay, Geralt?”

With that, Geralt pulls off his cock with a wet pop, amusement flashing in his eyes as he licks his lips clean. Jaskier gives a punched-out noise above him, like Geralt is torturing him on purpose now. His cock is still hard and pulsing, soaked where it brushes against Geralt’s cheek and leaves a thin trail of saliva and pre-cum in its wake. He turns, presses a final kiss to the tip.

“Have you ever heard of shutting the fuck up and spreading your legs, Jaskier?” Geralt wavers back at him, getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. 

“I have, but unfortunately it didn't suit me.” Jaskier quips back just as easily. But he’s distracted, his gaze dropped downward to ogle. Geralt doesn’t mind, holds his stretch for longer than strictly necessary, gives Jaskier a moment to familiarize himself. Curiously, Jaskier brings his hand down between their bodies, wrapping it around Geralt’s cock and giving it a few hard tugs. The direct friction feels good after so much build-up, a breathy noise leaving Geralt’s nostrils. “Fuck, you’re huge. Are you sure that’ll fit inside of me? How do you even get your breeches on over it?”

“Will it be a problem for you? We could have you fuck me instead.”

“Damn it, Geralt, it’s like you want me to come in ten seconds flat.” Jaskier chuckles, low and amused, pulling back the foreskin of Geralt’s cock with his thumb. He groans, a noise not entirely unlike when they used to stop at inns and Jaskier was presented with warm home-cooked meals rather than rabbit or venison roasted over a fire. Geralt finds that he enjoys the noise even more now than he did then. 

Jaskier looks up at him, grinning devilishly. “While we’re definitely returning to that offer in the very, very near future… I know what I want tonight and I want that monster cock crammed into my tight little ass whether it wants to fit or not. We’ll make it work.”

“You sound like a damn _whore_ , Jaskier.” It’s not exactly intended as an insult, but it’s far from being a compliment either. Geralt’s overwhelmed and Jaskier is doing little to help it with his filthy mouth and it only feels fair to call him out on it. He’s never had the best filter and luckily, Jaskier has always known and accepted as much.

But this time… Jaskier’s eyes go dark and lidded, his upper lip sliding back in a hiss to expose his fangs. A warning.

No sooner has it happened than does Jaskier slam his mouth shut, hands darting up to cover it. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled but unmistakably sheepish. Ashamed of himself.

“S-Sorry, I’ve been trying to hold them back but-”

“S’fine.” Geralt assures him, gaze fixated on Jaskier’s hands, and more specifically what lies beneath them. Slowly, recognition lights the other man’s face and Jaskier drops his hands, apprehension still visible on his face but in equal parts to the intrigue there. Geralt doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t feel sheepish in the slightest as he reaches up and pulls his upper lip back. 

There, nestled in his gums and filling half his mouth, are a pair of some of the most brutal-looking incisors Geralt has ever encountered. They’re long and stark white, drawn down into the sharpest pin-prick point imaginable. Geralt hears his own heartbeat pick up. He’s never been this close to danger and felt so safe.

Curious, his thumb moves to slide down the length of one fang. Jaskier gives a warning hum though, swatting Geralt’s hand away and shaking his head the moment he’s free of it.

“I wouldn’t touch them, they’re sharp.”

“I’m aware, Jaskier.” Geralt says. He reaches up again and this time Jaskier doesn’t retreat, even drops his jaw and lets his mouth hang wide open. Geralt steps closer, slots their hips together in the same instant he presses the pad of his thumb to the very tip of Jaskier’s fang. He feels the pin-prick sensation of it breaking through skin without the barest hint of pressure. And then there’s blood, welling up red and thick, dripping down either side of his thumb.

And just like that, the control over the situation splinters and shatters out of existence. Jaskier’s hands are on his wrist in an instant, nails digging into his skin. Those pretty pink kissable lips close around his thumb, the teeth between his fangs sinking into it to keep it in place. Geralt curses under his breath, pain shooting up the length of his arm. It’s nothing unmanageable, but enough for his first-instinct to be to pull away, which only has Jaskier biting down harder.

But once he stops fighting it, instead letting his hand stay perfectly still, the resistance lessens and the pain takes a backseat to… the image of Jaskier, eyes blown black and rolled back in ecstasy, his lips painted red where he’s eagerly sucking at Geralt’s thumb. He’s a vision, hair mussed and completely naked, absolutely shivering with need. It’s enough to make Geralt’s mouth go dry, his cock throbbing between his legs.

“Hungry little thing, aren’t you?” Geralt muses, reaching up with his free hand to brush Jaskier’s hair back from his eyes. He emits a low warning growl and for a moment Geralt thinks he’s made a mistake, but he’s surprisingly quick to relax into it, eyes fluttering closed as he continues to drink. So Geralt keeps trying to soothe him, stroking a hand over his face.

Eventually, though, Geralt is forced to admit that this display is only really working to make him impossibly hornier. He’s impatience has grown dangerously and with it, something mischievous has started to rise to the surface. His hand that’d been lovingly stroking through Jaskier’s hair now curls into a fist around it, giving it a sharp tug. Jaskier bites down twice as hard for it, before realizing what he’s done and unlatching his jaw with a pathetic whimper.

Geralt draws his hand back, barely spares the damage a glance before he’s looking back to Jaskier, who’s rapidly licking his lips clean and coming back to himself.

“How do I taste?” Geralt asks, straight to the point. Just when Jaskier looks like he’s composed himself, Geralt brings his thumb back, pressing it against his lips. His tongue darts out to lick it clean, but this time he doesn’t bite down. Though he does go a bit cross-eyed to look at it, very plainly still hungry.

“ _Geralt_. Don’t tease.” 

“Answer me.”

“Like a bloody fucking delicacy, if you must know. The richest of sweets and the most savory of meals all rolled into one. I’ll never be satisfied with another for as long as I live. Now let me have you already.” As if to emphasize the urgency, Jaskier’s hips roll in a languid grind against Geralt’s, their bare cocks sliding together for the first time. It punches out a grunt from Geralt, startled by Jaskier’s forwardness.

“Not here.” Geralt says, turning to look around the room. His eyebrows furrow. “Where’s your bed?”

“I don’t have a bed, Geralt, I don’t fucking sleep.” Jaskier singsongs back at him, leaning forward and descending upon his neck like a man starved. Contrary to what one would expect when letting a vampire bury their face into your neck, Jaskier is far more gentler than Geralt had been with him. He lavishes soft and lingering kisses across Geralt’s skin, lathing his tongue across old scars, tasting him thoroughly.

Fuck.

Geralt’s brain short circuits a bit, but eventually he decides on the lush carpets spread out in front of the fire. It’s not a bed, but it’ll do as a substitute. He grabs onto Jaskier’s thin waist and as if on cue, long lithe legs wrap around his hips, and Geralt carries them both over to the rug.

Jaskier untangles himself from Geralt when he realizes what they’re doing and where, his feet hitting the ground and then padding over to a small side table in the corner of the room. Geralt watches him idly, as he lies back across the rug and runs his hand over his cock a few times to alleviate the building pressure there. When Jaskier returns, he’s toting a little vial in his hand, and wordlessly hands it to Geralt before moving to sit himself down in his lap again.

“Not like that. Turn around.” Geralt explains hurriedly. He’s not normally one for giving orders in the bedroom, normally content to please his partner and follow their lead. But after watching Jaskier walk across the room with his back turned to him, there’s an idea that’s planted itself in Geralt’s head and he can’t shake it.

For a moment, he worries he hasn’t described the position he wants well enough. Jaskier is giving him a strange look, lips pursed and bitten shut, like he’s on the verge of saying something and isn’t sure yet whether he should. Geralt glares at him coldly, demanding he fess up or get a move on.

“You’re joking, right?” Jaskier says finally, followed by a flustered disbelieving laugh. Geralt props himself up on his elbow, looks down the length of his body to where he’s fisting his cock. He sighs.

“What about this looks humorous to you?”

“With all due respect, I don’t think you want these fangs anywhere near your cock, high pain tolerance or not.” Jaskier offers, a sympathetic smile pulling the corner of his lips downward. Geralt stares at him, completely at a loss for words. Jaskier takes the silence as his cue to continue, a morose tone taking over his voice as he reminisces. “It’s a pity, really, I used to be such a great cocksucker, renowned worldwide for my talents and you missed your chance to ever experience it for yourself when-”

“Shut-up.” Geralt barks, growing frustrated with the lack of progress. “I want to eat you out and get you ready for my cock, I don’t care what _you_ do while you’re down there.”

“You want me to sit there and salivate at the sight of your cock inches from my face and do nothing about it? That’s a cruel and unjust punishment, I’ll have you know.” Jaskier sighs forlornly, casting an arm over his eyes and tipping his head back in dramatic misery. Geralt snarls, slamming his hand down against the floorboards. 

“For fuck’s sake! I’m asking you to bite me, Jaskier!” As soon as he’s finished with his outburst, the room is completely and utterly silent. Not even a quickened heartbeat or breathing pattern from Jaskier to alert him he’s done the wrong thing, or something so wrong that it isn’t fixable. He’s forced to backtrack on his own, assuming the worst. “I, uh, I hear that the thigh is a good-”

“Yes, yes it is.” Jaskier cuts him off, holding up a hand to silence him and spare him the awkwardness of trying to explain. Jaskier pads toward him on light feet then, stepping one foot to the other side of Geralt’s chest and then slowly lowering himself down. “Alright. Very well.”

Moments later, his thighs are straddling Geralt’s chest, and his lips are idly tracing the tip of Geralt’s cock with obvious longing. He kisses all along the shaft, tracing the veins along the underside with his tongue, a practiced ease about it like he’d done it a hundred times before. Surprisingly, he doesn’t try to take it into his mouth despite the risks. Geralt isn’t sure whether he’s feeling relief or disappointment about it.

Whatever it is, it’s quickly forgotten when Jaskier finally leans his weight back, hips settling above Geralt’s face. It gives him something to focus on, something to devote himself to. His hands slide over the rounded cheeks of Jaskier’s ass, gripping two generous handfuls and pulling them apart. 

“You’re gorgeous.” Geralt breathes out, not even hesitating to duck his head forward and bury his face in Jaskier’s ass. He grunts against smooth skin, mouths at the furl of his entrance, then lets his tongue dart out to lick across it. Jaskier groans, arching his back into it, wordlessly asking for more.

“Never had anyone sound so reverent to have a facefull of my ass.” Jaskier whispers back to him, aiming for teasing and failing terribly with how flustered his voice is. Geralt ignores the comment, too dedicated to his work to be distracted. He laps at Jaskier’s rim, makes sure it’s thoroughly slicked with saliva. He stops to nibble once or twice, earning a sharp smack to the shin each time. The hits hardly hurt, only really result in him chuckling, which only works to bother Jaskier more, until he’s squirming uselessly both away from and closer to the sensation of short stubble against his softest most intimate areas. 

Eventually, once Jaskier has relaxed back against him and isn’t rocking back and forth in sensitivity, Geralt curls his tongue and probes inside of him for the first time. Jaskier is shockingly tight, his muscles clamping down around Geralt’s tongue, twitching uselessly around it when Geralt presses inside harder instead of relenting. He only pauses when he feels Jaskier dip his head and press fangs to his inner thigh.

Geralt pulls back breathlessly, wiping his chin on the back of his hand.

“Now?”

“ _Yes_. Need it.” Oh, he thinks he could get used to Jaskier sounding like that, all fucked-out and wrecked just for him. “I won’t drink much, if you’re worried about that. Just enough to sate the need so I can focus on you for the rest of the night. I won’t hurt you.”

“Doesn’t matter if you do. I could die a happy man right now.” Geralt reassures him quickly, trying to appear indifferent as he goes back to the goal at hand. This time, he doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to relax into it, immediately driving his tongue inside of him and feeling the way his rim flutters around it in shock. This time, the hit to his shin definitely hurts, smarting afterward in a way that means it’ll definitely bruise.

But he doesn’t mind, as Jaskier doubles over and buries his face into Geralt’s thigh, choking out his name like it’s his last word.

“Fucking hell!” Jaskier cries out, trying to scramble away only for Geralt’s strong grip on his hips to haul him right back into place. “Give a man some warning next time before you dive right in like a dog to a bone, you fucking- **_Oh_ ** . Oh, _Geralt,_ don’t stop! _Fuck_. You’re good at this. Where the hell did you learn how to eat ass like th-you know what, nevermind, I don’t need to know. I just wanna, ah, fuck, hnn, fuck… enjoy it. God, yes, just like that, don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Ah, god, more, m-”

“Do you ever shut-up?” Geralt pulls back just enough to scold him and be heard, his hot breath ghosting across Jaskier’s inner thighs and causing gooseflesh to rise in its wake. “Bite me. Now. Occupy your mouth with something worthwhile.”

It seems, for the first time in his entire life, Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice before following orders.

The idea that he would ever call Geralt a dog to a bone is laughable when Jaskier rounds on him, clamping down on his thigh with a snarl without a hint of warning. Geralt’s leg kicks out, spasming, as fangs sink deep into his veins and stay there. He grits his teeth against the first wave of discomfort, until it starts to lessen into something tolerable.

Jaskier is far less controlled than he was before, fingernails scrambling across Geralt’s flesh, teeth unlatching only to sharply bite back down in another place where the blood flow is stronger. Geralt can feel the wetness of it, the warmth of saliva and blood alike smeared across his leg. It hurts, there’s no denying that much, but something about the fact he’s providing for and pleasuring Jaskier makes it an altogether satisfying experience despite the hurt.

Besides, there’s a wonderful distraction right in front of him.

Once he goes back to it, Geralt’s unrelenting. He eats Jaskier out with such a fervor that it’s not long before the poor man’s thighs are trembling beneath him and threatening to give out. Geralt doesn’t stop even then, just tightens his grip and prepares to be adoringly suffocated by Jaskier’s ass if he happens to collapse astride him. Jaskier is much the same anyway, hungrily biting into and gnawing at Geralt’s leg, hips rocking down against Geralt’s chest and back against his face.

Even with his mouth occupied, Jaskier is as characteristically loud as one would expect. Just now, instead of words, he’s making fucked-out and pleased little moans and whimpers in the back of his throat that are arguably even harder to stand. Geralt’s cock is so hard it hurts, where it lies forgotten between them.

Deciding to hurry things along, Geralt grabs for the discarded bottle of oil, popping the cork with his teeth and immediately rushing to slick his fingers with the substance. He brings a finger to Jaskier’s rim where it’s loose and twitching needily at the loss of his tongue, desperate to be filled again. Still, he merely traces around the muscle there, doesn’t press inside until he’s hazarded a glance down the length of their bodies to where Jaskier is happily guzzling down his blood. His eyes are lidded, corners of his mouth upturned around the bite, looking for all intents and purposes like the cat who got the cream.

Geralt smirks, decides that’s as close to permission as he probably needs, and sinks the first finger inside to the hilt. It’s met with no resistance whatsoever, but it does earn him a sharp and startled gasp, as Jaskier pulls off his leg for the first time in minutes. The gasp doesn’t end, simply morphs into a long and low moan that reverberates from the bard’s chest when Geralt’s finger crooks downward and presses harshly against where he’ll feel it most.

Jaskier is, predictably, a screamer. When his mouth isn’t occupied.

Geralt gets three fingers in and can hardly hear his own thoughts over the sharp cries and knees of the man on top of him. He’s absolutely lost to it, pressing back to fuck himself on Geralt’s hand, toes curling and hands sliding uselessly over Geralt’s legs in search of purchase. He’d been remarkably easy to work open, but just to be safe, Geralt slips a fourth finger in alongside the others.

“Just like that, _fuck_ . If your fingers feel this good I can only imagine how your cock must. Mm, fuck, hurry, Geralt, I can’t wait. I want it _now_. Want you. Want you so badly, please, pl-”

“Just a little longer, Jaskier, bite me again and distract yourself if you need to.” Geralt tells him, soothingly running his free hand over his flank, giving his ass a teasing little slap. Jaskier jerks hard at that, falling forward with a ruined noise, sinking his teeth brutally back into Geralt’s already-tender skin. Geralt hisses in pain but otherwise doesn’t react, keeping up the steady motion of his hand.

He drives his fingers into Jaskier over and over again, spreading them wide and curling them deep inside of him, making sure he’s fully prepared to take Geralt’s cock in all it’s glory. He gets an idea for where Jaskier likes to be touched most, the places he can rub his fingers teasingly over and elicit verbal or physical reactions, like Jaskier’s jaw clamping down on his thigh that much harder. 

Geralt abuses the knowledge, relentlessly rubbing his fingers against Jaskier’s prostate, the motion effortless once he gets a feel for it. Jaskier is so, so loose and ready now, aroused past the point of coherency… all Geralt has to do is slide a couple fingers free of his hold and use two to massage inside of him, seeking out that spot and ravaging it with direct stimulation.

And alright, maybe he can admit that at this point he’s been more thorough than is strictly necessary, is bordering on the edge of being teasing. Surely it’s called for though, Jaskier had teased him for years in all manner of ways. Besides, it’s not entirely intended to torture Jaskier, it’s equal parts self-indulgent because Geralt has never seen or heard _anything_ as beautiful as the prone body on top of him trembling from overstimulation.

Jaskier pulls off of his thigh with an audible gasp, nearly choking around it.

“Fuck! I can’t, Geralt, I can’t-” Geralt pays him little mind, having grown accustomed to the constant babbling that spilled from Jaskier’s lips. His lips twitch upward in a devious grin, enjoying himself far too much as he plays Jaskier as well as the bard his lute. The sounds he makes are definitely comparable to a well-tuned instrument, sounding almost rehearsed despite their authenticity. 

Geralt gets a very plain confirmation of their authenticity when Jaskier clamps down tight around his fingers, entire body shuddering, a weak blurt of wetness dripping from his untouched cock and dripping into the valley between Geralt’s pecs. Finally, he stills his hand, eyes wide and unseeing as Jaskier whimpers his way through his obvious completion. 

“Did you just...?”

“Felt good. Tasted… _really_ good.” Jaskier offers, sounding more lax and satisfied than Geralt has ever heard him. He slumps forward like a limp ragdoll, burying his face into Geralt’s good thigh that isn’t littered with marks and blood. Geralt’s fingers slip free of his arse with a slick sort-of noise. 

“Hm.” Geralt hums, considering. Absentmindedly, he smooths his hands up the backs of Jaskier’s thighs, traces across the swell of his ass with soft fascination. Then, he gives a gentle slap, pulling on his hips until he’s reluctantly back to sitting upright. From this new angle, Geralt admires the long curve of his back, admiring the notches of his spine and how they stand out against pale skin. 

He sits up beneath him, brings his lips to Jaskier’s ear and whispers under his breath. “Hopefully your death has upped your stamina then, because I’m fucking you whether you can get it up again or not.”

“What did you know of my stamina before death, hm?” Jaskier snarks back at him, not hesitating to take the bait. He makes no immediate effort to move from the spot. Geralt grows impatient, pinching his ass cheek and trying not to chuckle at the indignant squawk he makes in response.

“That it took you approximately two minutes to jack yourself off in your bedroll each night and then you passed out without another word. The only time you were blissfully silent in over ten years we traveled together, you know that?”

“Shut-up.” Jaskier grumbles, slowly lifting himself up and readjusting. He doesn’t turn around yet, just rolls his neck and lifts himself up into a sitting position, settled on Geralt’s stomach. “I didn’t know you were listening, pervert.”

“How could I not? You were far from quiet.” Geralt defends himself, even though he recognizes there’s no real distrust in Jaskier’s voice. He is making a big deal out of it anyway though, as is typical for the bard, clinging to the dramatics. A long suffering sigh, followed by arms crossing tight over his bare chest, Geralt knows the telltale signs of Jaskier pouting when he sees them. “Hey now, there’s no need to be embarrassed. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. I thought it was-”

Jaskier turns that exact moment to lift his weight and turn around, landing in Geralt’s lap and stealing the breath from his lungs when a sly hand reaches down to grasp his cock.

It doesn’t help matters that Jaskier’s face is painted _red_ , a deep and rich red, saturated with so much color that there’s no missing it. It’d be hard to miss even if it wasn’t such a bold attention-grabbing color, given how messy he was with it. He has his entire jawline soaked in thick blood, stray trails tracing the dips and divots down his neck, anything that he’s attempted to smear away leaving behind a faint tinge to his pale skin that only extensive scrubbing will be able to will away.

He looks _animalistic_. Like a beast, fresh from the hunt, satisfied after a feed. 

“What did you think it was, hm?” Jaskier presses on, leaning right into his face. He’s smiling, bright and bold, cheeks flushed a pleasant and lively pink. The smell of his own blood is a strong pungent scent, Geralt inhales it deeply through his nostrils and finds it so cloying he can’t even smell Jaskier anymore beneath it, their scents mingling and mixing to become one. 

But Jaskier looks so utterly content, and Geralt is weak for it, weak for his happiness. 

Geralt wants to keep him like this forever, radiating life and warmth, so very content down to his core. His eyes are as blue as Geralt remembered them now, without the hunger leeching their color away, and when they flicker down to linger hesitantly on Geralt’s lips, he doesn’t think. He just does.

He jolts up, kissing Jaskier hard enough to hurt.

Jaskier seems a bit startled at first but quickly meets him with the same enthusiasm, crowding their chests closer together, licking into Geralt’s mouth with a possessiveness that would unsettle him if anyone else were the wearer. As it is, he can’t find it within himself to feel anything but flattered, a deep-rooted pride blossoming within his chest to know that Jaskier wants him as wholly as he does.

The taste of his own blood should be off-setting, or at the very least distracting, but it’s hard to concentrate on even that when Jaskier’s skilled tongue is working to take him apart, to taste him in every other manner it’s allowed. Besides, when has Geralt ever been squeamish about blood? He’s had it on every inch of him, has ripped out throats with his teeth when he was offered no other weapon. 

They pull apart just enough for Geralt to catch his breath and Jaskier to lick the remaining blood from his own lips. But then his tongue is tracing the fine points of his fangs, precise and easy about it, like he’s done it a hundred times before staring down a hundred different victims and something about that makes Geralt feel so needy he could collapse with it. He doesn’t even catch his breath fully, just dives right back in and kisses him again. 

Jaskier moans into his mouth this time, threading his fingers in Geralt’s hair and forcing him in closer. A slow and steady grind starts up between them again, as Jaskier’s cock rapidly fills out against Geralt’s abs, until it’s hard and leaking all over again. And then they’re rocking together as they kiss, desperate for more friction but too invested to separate.

When they pull apart, it’s only so Geralt can blurt the very first thought on his mind.

“I thought it was hot.” Geralt whispers against his lips, tongue darting out to trace teasingly across them before retreating the moment Jaskier tries to deepen the kiss in turn. “Listening to you squirm, trying and failing to be sneaky about it. Sometimes, your efforts were admirable, you were pretty quiet most the way through and a normal human never would have heard you. But I did. Every single time. And even when you managed to stay quiet, it all fell apart when you came. You were so loud, Jaskier, even on the nights I’d managed to fall asleep first, it always woke me.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier curses, biting his lip hard. “Did you ever…”

“No, didn’t want to cross any boundaries.” Geralt answers honestly, not even needing to hear the question before guessing where it’s headed. It was the natural conclusion, after all. He’d told himself many a night, as he teetered dangerously close to the edge of losing his self-control and touching himself to the noises Jaskier made. But in the end, his decency had always won out, and he’d been able to stop himself before it went anywhere it couldn’t come back from.

“You say, as if I wasn’t lying there bringing myself off to thoughts of you.” Jaskier snorts, reaching up to gently tuck a stray strand of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. Geralt preens under the attention, turns his head and kisses Jaskier’s wrist, impossibly soft. “The boundaries were long crossed by that point, love.”

“I’m going to fuck you now, yeah?” Geralt questions, as he reaches down between their bodies and grips his cock. Jaskier nods where he’s settled in his lap, hoisting himself up just far enough that Geralt can line himself up. He presses the head of his cock to Jaskier’s hole, feels the muscles flutter around it and resists the urge to spill his load right then and there. Never, in the history of Geralt having sex, has he felt so close to his demise so early on. He’s not even inside Jaskier yet and he knows it would barely take more than a single stroke if Jaskier really wanted him to come now.

He grips Jaskier tight against his chest and rolls them, pressing his bard down into the soft furs beneath them with a quiet soothing sound. Jaskier’s eyes are closed, but his legs fall open wide as if on instinct, familiar with the position of being spread out and on display for another man. Geralt settles in against him, feels muscular thighs hug his hips, and then lines himself up a second time.

From this angle, it’s much easier to control the rhythm, and a part of him thinks it’s better that way for their first time. Jaskier has already proved himself to be needy and insatiable, if he were the one riding Geralt and controlling things, they probably would have come twice by now.

Under any other circumstances, that might sound like a blessing more-so than a curse. But, for the first time in his life, sex feels like something more than crossing the finish line as many times as he possibly can. It isn’t a race, and definitely not a marathon, it’s something to savour. He wants to commit this to memory, every second of it. 

He’s gentle about it as he presses into Jaskier, resisting the urge to immediately snap his hips and bury himself to the hilt. It’s never been a difficult urge to resist, the well-being of his partners always paramount when he knows he’s working with such an overwhelming size, but it’s maybe the hardest it’s ever been when he’s with Jaskier. He’s drunk on the sensation and horrifically eager for it, wants to know what it feels like to be completely submerged in Jaskier’s tide.

Nevermind that Jaskier is a vampire, could definitely take anything he dishes out. 

It’s not about the possibility of pain this time, it’s about something more than the physicality of it. 

“You can move, you know. You won’t break me, hung like a horse or not, I heal just as quickly as you do now, possibly quicker. A little bit of pain is hardly a turn-off for me, and clearly it isn’t for you either seeing as you let me massacre your thigh with my teeth.” Jaskier chatters on, teeth bared as he goads Geralt to give in to his desires. It’s a familiar enough concept, but this time Geralt doesn’t cave like a house of cards. He just smiles, soft and easy, and leans down to mouth across the other man’s chest.

“Let me have this for a moment, Jaskier.” He whispers, kissing his skin softly. “I never thought I would.”

For a few blissful seconds, it seems like his words have been absorbed and respected. He should know better than to assume that by now, at least when it comes to dealing with Jaskier. Within the minute he’s talking again, unhurried and completely conversationally like they aren’t tied together in the most intimate of ways.

“And then you’ll give it to me good? Show me what I’ve been missing all these years?” Jaskier whispers, like speaking any louder might break the moment, might shatter the adoration worn so proudly on Geralt’s face. He brings a hand up, trails his fingers idly through Geralt’s chest hair. “I want you to take me apart and put me back together again, new, in your image. Want to feel you inside me long after you’ve gone. I want you to finally, finally show me how a witcher _fucks_.”

“I don’t speak for all of us.” Geralt reminds him, burying his face further into the curve of his neck and inhaling deeply. But, unable to resist, he treats Jaskier to a slow and steady roll of his hips. It punches groans out of both their chests, vastly different pitches but at their core the exact same sound for the both of them. “Don’t fuck for all of us, either.”

“Then show me how _my_ witcher fucks. Heaven knows you’re the only one I’ve ever had eyes for anyway, the others were never more than a distraction.” Jaskier responds, wrapping his arms tight around Geralt, holding him even closer. Geralt gives a noncommittal grunt, but he starts up a steady rhythm of fucking into Jaskier’s willing body. He takes it well, no resistance whatsoever, and near immediately he’s pressing back into it in search of more. “Gods. I’d think of you, while I was with them. I’d imagine it was your cock splitting me open, your hands holding me down, your deep voice whispering praises in my ear. All I ever wanted was to be yours.”

“You are.” Geralt assures him, breathy and desperate with it. “You always have been.”

Jaskier moves with him effortlessly, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. His body is soft and forgiving in all the places that Geralt’s is battle-hardened and rough, and when Geralt presses the length of his cock into him, Jaskier responds in turn by arching his back into it. It’s never come this naturally with anyone, like their fucking is just an extension of the rest of their relationship. It’s as easy and casual as their conversations, as thoughtless as their bickering. 

Jaskier _knows_ him. More than anyone has ever known him. And it shows in the way he takes him apart, with soothing hands trailing down his spine, soft lingering kisses to the hollow of his throat, breathy little chuckles against him whenever Geralt’s patience wanes and he finds himself driving his hips forward with just a bit more purpose. No one has ever treated Geralt like this, like something to be held and cherished, bathed in affection and firelight.

But, as is the give and take nature of their relationship, Geralt also knows Jaskier.

And as indulgent as he’s being, giving in to Geralt’s desire to fuck with meaning behind it, to take care of each other slow and steady… to _make love_ … they’re both on the same page in knowing that that’s not how Jaskier wants it. He’s an impatient spitfire bastard at the best of times and the bedroom is no exception to that. Geralt’s seen him in action, heard what he’s capable of with those skilled hands and his wicked tongue, and it’s never been a slow climb to ecstasy with him.

“Harder, Geralt, fuck me _harder_ . I _know_ you can.” Jaskier begs eventually, landing a couple flimsy frustrated hits to Geralt’s back to spur him on. Geralt merely chuckles, nipping at the underside of his jaw, wordlessly telling him to behave. Though, even as he does so, he finds his knees planted into the carpet with more certainty, support to put behind the next few thrusts he drives home. 

Jaskier cries out with each one, body sliding across the furs with the momentum behind it. He throws his head back and simply basks in it, grinning like a devil, clearly enjoying getting exactly what he wanted.

But then Geralt slows back down, taunting him with a deep and steady grind deep inside of him, barely pulling back before rolling his hips forward again. Jaskier stutters around a shout of protest, wrapping his thighs firmly around Geralt’s hips and attempting to drag him in faster, harder. 

Geralt reaches behind himself and untangles Jaskier’s legs forcibly, the other man making a soft noise at the effortless manhandling. Geralt gets his ankles up around his shoulders, leaning forward and bending his lithe body near in half, making sure he can feel it as he bottoms out again, agonizingly slowly.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Geralt taunts, now that they’re face-to-face again, their lips brushing as he speaks. Jaskier nods weakly, his eyes screwed shut and eyebrows drawn together, and if Geralt didn’t know him any better he’d say it was a look of pain. But he can smell the arousal pooling between them, Jaskier’s cock leaking a weak puddle of pre-cum into the dip of his navel. He could come like this, make no mistake, he doesn’t need to be fucked hard and ruthless to get there. That’s just a preference of his. “Yeah? You can? Made for taking cock, are you?”

“ _Please_ , Geralt.” 

“Never could say no to you, could I?” Geralt muses aloud, but before Jaskier can even begin to form a response the words are stolen from him in a kiss. Heavy hands land on his hips, gripping them tight so he can’t protest when Geralt backs off and slips his cock free. Unfortunately, he does still protest verbally, whining and cursing up a storm as he kicks out uselessly, demanding to be filled again. Geralt shushes him, leans back to watch as he flips Jaskier over.

Geralt doesn’t hesitate to bury his cock into his hole again the moment he’s in the preferred position, his back bowed until his chest presses to the rugs, ass held high in the air for easy access. He’s perfectly on display and at Geralt’s mercy, dwarfed under Geralt’s size as he crowds over his back and pins him there.

The pace he sets then is brutal right from the start, exactly how Jaskier would want it to be. He snaps his hips against Jaskier’s ass hard enough that it would bruise a normal human, and as it is Jaskier can definitely still feel the sting of it. The red welts that rise to the surface of his skin are proof enough of that much. Though it’s hard to imagine he’s feeling pain at all, when the noises he makes are so downright depraved, so very clearly approving as he begs and pleads with Geralt not to stop _, please don’t stop_.

Geralt doesn’t stop. He grits his teeth against the onslaught of pleasure and gives it to Jaskier harder than he’s ever dared to with anyone else. His nails leave nasty scratches across Jaskier’s hips as he scrambles for purchases, eventually gripping on tight and leveraging Jaskier’s bodyweight back against his cock, like nothing more than a toy.

And when he leans back, panting for breath as his heart beats unnaturally fast within his chest, his yellow eyes zero in on where they’re connected. He watches as the length of his cock repeatedly buries itself inside of Jaskier to the hilt, watches the way his body hungrily welcomes him back, slickness shining down the length of his entire shaft. Jaskier’s rim twitches needlessly around the flared head of Geralt’s cock each time he pulls his hips back, as if he won’t return a second later.

He frees a hand from Jaskier’s hip, holding his breath as he tentatively reaches down and strokes his thumb across where Jaskier’s rim is stretched taut around his cock. Jaskier mewls, pressing back into the touch, like nothing more than a needy cat in search of attention. Geralt can’t help but chuckle, dropping his hand even further to roll Jaskier’s balls in his palm as he picks his pace up again, plowing Jaskier from behind until the bard is back to making those fucked-out needy noises. 

“F-Fucking hell, I finally see where you _really_ got the nickname.” Jaskier stutters out a minute later, finally coming back to himself through the haze of pleasure enough to speak. Geralt gives a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement as he pistons his hips, beyond words himself despite the way he appreciates hearing Jaskier talk again. It grounds him, as his baser desires fuel him. “The Great White Wolf, named aptly so because he’s prone to flip you over and mount you from behind like a _beast_ would. Gonna breed me like a bitch in heat, Geralt?”

“You’re _vile_.” Geralt hisses, giving Jaskier’s ass a reprimanding smack.

“You’re just as affected by it as I am, there’s no use playing coy when I can _feel_ the way your cock throbs every time I speak.”

“Maybe it has little to do with what you’re saying and everything to do with the fact that it’s you.”

“You flatter me, Geralt.” Jaskier sighs warmly, loose and languid like he’s already come, as he looks back over his shoulder at Geralt above him. He purses his lips, blows a silent kiss up at him. “I have to warn you, you’ll never be rid of me, if you keep it up.”

“That’s the goal.”

“Fuck.”

“Close again?”

“Mm, v-very.” Jaskier nods rapidly, dragging his cheek back and forth against the smooth furs beneath him, so out of it that he almost seems unaware. Geralt reaches up, brushes his hair back from his face, then settles a hand at the top of his spine between his shoulders and applies weight behind it. Jaskier whines pathetically, as he’s pinned to the spot, forced to take it as Geralt grinds the full size of his cock inside of him, back to that slow and thorough pace. “ _Gods_ , you’re so big, swear I can feel you in my throat. Of course you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had in my entire goddamn life, you and your stupid monster cock. Size of my fucking forearm, I swear. I’m going to limp for days, vampire healing or not.”

Geralt finds himself laughing again, something he can’t remember ever doing during sex as much as he has with Jaskier. His chest just feels light, like his heart is weightless rather than a lead weight holding him down. It’s so much different than hasty hook-ups out of necessity, when physical desire grew too strong. This sates a desire so much deeper than that.

“Don’t worry, I’ll carry you around.” Geralt promises sweetly, reaching down beneath Jaskier to take his cock in hand. It’s achingly hard, twitches against Geralt’s palm the very moment he’s enclosed his fist around it. The sheer amount of pre-cum is insane, slick and warm as it webs between his fingers, eases the way of his fist as he rapidly jerks it over Jaskier’s length. “Think I’d quite like to have you on hand, a willing hole to stick my prick in when I so please.”

“Fuck!” Jaskier curses so prettily when he’s close to his end, Geralt thinks he’ll never tire of the sound.

“Maybe next time I’ll even let you try sucking it.”

“You wouldn’t!” Jaskier chokes out, sounding absolutely wrecked. His cock is absolutely drooling across Geralt’s knuckles and there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s holding himself back at this point, trying to draw out the pleasure before he comes. It’s typical Jaskier, indulgent to the point of excess, to the point of edging and teasing himself with his release by trying to fight it every step of the way, until it’s ripped from him with or without his approval.

The thought has Geralt fucking him that much harder, his own pleasure amounting to dangerous levels.

“Oh, you underestimate me, I’ve stuck my cock in far more precarious places.” Geralt admits in a moment of weakness, under the siren’s call of Jaskier’s body wrapped tight around his cock. He’s warm inside, so impossibly warm, clenching down on his cock harder as he gets closer and closer to his own orgasm. “Get you a nice gag to cover your fangs, force your mouth to open wide, a pretty passage for my cock to fill. I can just picture you on your knees for me with a cock halfway down your throat, still begging for more, always more. My greedy little bard.”

Jaskier clamps down on him hard, a full-body shudder wracking his frame from head to toe. Geralt realizes what’s happening before Jaskier seems to, smelling the fresh wave of salt and sex in the air even before the first streak has shot from Jaskier’s cock. He fucks him through it, not giving him a reprieve from the hand working his cock or the battering of his prostate.

“Geralt, I’m coming! Hhn, fuck, _I’m_ -” 

“That’s it, sing for me.” Geralt growls out, a pleased rumble of a noise. “So pretty when you cry, Jaskier.”

And cry he does. 

Gods, does he ever cry. At first, when the weight of his orgasm eases into him and his cock starts to jerk in Geralt’s palm, he cries with muffled little whimpers that seem to be escaping his lips without his knowledge. Then it crests and crashes, his peak finding him gasping and crying out, his ass clamping down and milking Geralt’s cock with all it’s worth, tight as a vice and suffocating in the pleasure it brings with it. It nearly knocks the breath from Geralt’s lungs, as he doubles over, driving his hips in at the shifted angle and earning a strangled shout of oversensitivity from the boy below him.

And then, as he comes down and Geralt slows but doesn’t stop, continuing to fuck into him… Jaskier starts to well and truly cry from the overstimulation. The tangy scent of saltwater tears in the air, the little sobs wrenched from his lips, the absolutely heart-shattering way he chokes each time Geralt ploughs back into him.

Despite how damningly attractive it is, it’s enough to make a man feel guilty. Not to mention, Geralt is close enough now after watching that display that it would only really take a couple tugs of his hand to finish. It’s not the same as coming inside of someone, but Geralt has slept with enough skeptical whores not trying to be impregnated and not believing the sterility claim, that he’s no stranger to pulling out and painting his cum across smooth skin instead.

So he moves to do just that, as his cock spasms with the first wave of what will no doubt be an amazing orgasm, he backs his hips up and attempts to pull his cock from Jaskier’s vice-like hold.

“No! No, no, no-” Jaskier is protesting so vehemently that it takes Geralt’s lesser brain to register what the problem actually is. The answer comes to him in the way Jaskier arches back against him, shaking his hips enticingly from side to side, then up and down the length of his cock. Geralt shudders, biting down hard on his tongue to keep from losing it right then and there. “Inside, Geralt, come _inside_ me.” 

“You’re sure?” Geralt manages weakly, hips stuttering and losing rhythm, rapidly approaching the point where it won’t much matter what Jaskier’s answer is. Though, the indignant little scoff is a clear giveaway that Jaskier is insulted he’s been asked in the first place.

“Why do you act as if I don’t know what I’m asking for? This is far from the first time I’ve laid with a man, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” Jaskier snaps at him, reaching back to grab at his hip, his thigh, his ass, anything within reach to keep him from pulling out. “Yes, I’m sure. You want me to beg for it? Beg for an assful of your cum? Fucking hell, Geralt, what do you want from me? Want me to explain how good it feels to be _filled_ , how I want to feel it drip down my legs when you pull out, want to be bred and owned by you so thoroughly that-”

“Shut-up.” Geralt roars, but only because he’s not sure how much more of that he can take when he’s toeing the line of his climax. Surprisingly, Jaskier listens, goes eerily silent until the only sound in the room is their rapidly coupling, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls. As Geralt feels himself slipping, getting clumsy and uncalculated in how he fucks, Jaskier steps up to the plate and sets the pace for them. He arches back into Geralt’s thrusts, crying out even as he asks for it, actively seeks it out. Geralt hums, smoothing a hand up the length of his spine. “That’s it. Just like that. Work yourself on my cock, pretty boy.”

When Geralt comes, it’s with a guttural groan of sorts, not unlike the sound he makes when he’s been stabbed. It’s broken and wounded, raw in nature, like that of an animal. Jaskier pulls it from him, with the clutch of his body, the smell of his pleasure still in the air. He loses himself to it, hands scrabbling uselessly across the cobblestone floor, fingernails digging into unforgiving brickwork in desperate search for grounding when he feels so utterly lost to this world.

In truth, though Jaskier knows better than to call it out and Geralt is neck-deep into denial, he thinks he might shed a few tears when he comes too. Nothing, in over a hundred years of living, has overwhelmed him in the way that being with Jaskier does. He feels complete, like an innate purpose has been met, a deep-rooted desire sated. He can’t imagine ever going without this again. He won’t allow himself to. He wants Jaskier here, beneath him, until he meets his bitter end.

He shakes his way through it, grunting with each wave that hits him. The heightened witcher libido haunts him in the way he seeks out a brothel every other week, the way his hand never satisfies him fully, the way his stamina rivals any partner he’s ever had until now. But this, this is where he feels it most, when he comes.

He’s seen how normal people come undone. He’s been the cause of it. He’s watched them writhe for ten to fifteen seconds and then go boneless beneath him, spent and exhausted with it, thoroughly satisfied.

A witcher doesn’t get that reprieve from the pleasure when it peaks and gets too be too much, when humans shrink away from it and allow themselves to come back down. A witcher’s orgasm is possessive and saturated, heightened senses turning something pleasurable into something transcendent. 

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He’s never timed it, never had his head about him in the heat of the moment to try. He knows that it’s usually longer than his partner wants to withstand, knows that it earns him a side-eye of equal parts jealousy and sympathy. Because gods, it’s too much, it’s pleasure so rich that it becomes pain, the two sensations intermingling into something of its own kind.

“Gods, you’re not finished _yet_ ?” Jaskier whines petulantly, squirming underneath him and earning himself a warning growl pressed to the nape of his neck. He stills, albeit reluctantly, and turns his head to the side to press their lips together. It’s a fleeting thing at the awkward angle, but Geralt welcomes it, kisses him sweetly to make up for how uncomfortable he clearly is. The moment they separate Jaskier goes right back to complaining, though he’s obediently still now. “Suddenly the warning makes total sense. For a sterile man, you certainly pump it out by the bucket, don’t you? I think a horse cock would spill _less_ than this, actually.”

“Mm, fucking… fuck off. You asked for it. Begged for it.” Geralt groans, bucking his hips and chasing the sensation with a few final thrusts into the tight, wet heat. It’s wetter than ever before now, wetter than a pussy with how it squelches obscenely around his cock. Even before he starts pulling out, there’s cum leaking obscenely around where they’re connected, dripping down Jaskier’s taint and balls, past that and down the length of his softening cock. Geralt watches avidly, reaches down to collect the cum on his fingertip and scoop it back up to Jaskier’s hole.

The moment he pulls out, his fingers are there to replace his cock. Jaskier startles, not expecting to be filled again, but quickly settles into it as Geralt toys with his used hole. Try as he may, it’s a losing battle to keep it all inside, and his hand ends up just as soaked as Jaskier’s skin. 

“It suits you, doesn’t it? Being covered in cum, having it drip down the inside of your thighs.” His filter is completely diminished post-fuck, and Geralt finds himself speaking without thinking. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind anyway, a warbling little moan slipping past his lips. “I might keep you like this.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t honor, Geralt. You’ll get my hopes up.”

“Mm.” Geralt chuckles under his breath, pushing his sweat-slicked hair out of his face and collapsing into the soft furs beside Jaskier. He sighs happily, rolling onto his back and folding his arms behind his head, all but ready to fall asleep where he lays. Preferably, with Jaskier cuddled up beside him, but the other man is taking an irritating amount of time to join him.

A quiet disgruntled noise has his eyes fluttering open, darting to the source of it.

He tries not to smirk, he really does, as he watches Jaskier use the remains of his own tattered shirt to try and mop up the cum pooling between his legs. He’s still on his hands and knees, reaching back around behind himself to drag the fabric between his cheeks, scowling deeply as he does so.

Jaskier chooses that moment to look up and meet his gaze, his jaw dropping in mock offense as he sees whatever smug look Geralt is wearing. He biffs the cum-soaked fabric toward Geralt’s head, but it’s effortlessly caught and tosses away before it comes anywhere near his face.

“Fuck off. For the record, you weren’t even _that_ good. I’ve had better.”

“That’s not what I recall you saying just now.” Geralt counters, as he opens his arms and Jaskier falls happily between them despite his complaining. It’s all surface-level anyway, Geralt can practically smell the contentment clinging to the air, how satisfied Jaskier truly is. “Best fuck you’ve ever had, hm?”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Jaskier grumbles into his collarbone, pressing a harsh kiss there, a sharp nip following. Jaskier’s teeth are no longer fangs now though, they’re the same blunt canines they always were before, so the bite doesn’t break skin, it just stings in his wake. 

“Behave and maybe I’ll clean up my mess in a minute.” 

“... there you go again with the hollow promises, Geralt, you really shouldn’t tease me.”

And that’s how Geralt ends up with Jaskier bent over the chesterfield, face buried between his cheeks once again, curling his tongue inside his loose hole and swallowing down his own spend. It isn’t long before he’s coaxing Jaskier to a third orgasm, white-knuckled and whimpering against the arm of the couch, because he’s apparently fucking _insatiable._

\--

Jaskier really is a beautiful man. The vampirism has done him favors, of course, but not so much in the sense that it’s changed him. It’s simply enhanced what was already there, all of what Geralt used to admire from afar. His skin is beautiful, pale and free of scars, even the ones he’d gathered during his travels with Geralt have healed now. His eyes are the lightest blue, almost unnatural, like the morning sky on a midsummer’s day. His hair is soft, so very soft to the touch, the finest texture as Geralt runs his hands through it.

Geralt has been busying himself with admiring the boy atop him for the past ten minutes, waiting for Jaskier to come back to himself post-orgasm. He’s utterly out of it, for a creature that doesn’t sleep, doesn’t need to breathe. He’s fucked out and giddy, giggling uselessly whenever Geralt attempts to hold a conversation with him.

And so instead he waits, holding Jaskier close and letting his hand soothe up and down the man’s back until he calms. He’s not sure how long it’ll take. 

“You know, I never would’ve guessed you were a cuddler.” Jaskier muses finally, lifting his head so they can look each other in the eye. He’s grinning, toothy and boyish. Geralt reaches up to ping his nose.

“I’m not.”

“Oh?” Jaskier inquires, his fingers tiptoeing along Geralt’s chest. There’s a long beat of silence where Geralt debates how honest he wants to be about this. His hand stills at the dip of Jaskier’s lower back, resting on his tailbone, tracing the dips of his dimples. He figures Jaskier deserves his honesty more than anyone else ever has, and what does he have left to hide now? There’s no secrets between them, so there shouldn’t be shame either.

“You’ve inspired stranger changes in me, Jaskier, the fact that this one surprises you is ironic at best.”

“You keep reminding me that I’m the first person you’ve ever loved and we’re going to have a problem.”

“What _kind_ of problem?”

“The kind where I simply keep you here, spread out beneath me, and never let you free of my hold for as long as we both live.”

“Hardly sounds like a problem to me.”

“You’d have to give up your witcher duties, I can’t hold you while you’re slaying monsters.”

“A small price to pay, I reckon.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I take them to heart, you know, every single one.” Jaskier sighs in exasperation, rolling his eyes. It’s a joke, it’s played up dramatically for a reaction, a role of sorts that he slips into to entertain. But beneath that, there’s something much more real, that they’re both aware of. Geralt smiles at him.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says, utterly honest. He reaches up, cups Jaskier’s cheek with his palm, watches as his eyes flutter closed and he leans into the touch. “Just because I _can’t_ doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could.”

“I know.” Jaskier’s voice softens to almost a whisper as he speaks, taking on a comforting lilt. He grasps Geralt’s hand in his, twines their fingers together, kisses across worn and scarred knuckles. Geralt hums and lets his eyes close now, basking in the attention. “So… what now?”

“What do you mean?” 

“What does this _mean_ for us?” Now that, that question is enough to have him opening his eyes and sitting upright beneath Jaskier, dislodging him from his comfortable perch atop Geralt’s chest. Their eyes meet, Jaskier’s apprehensive, Geralt’s concerned.

“I thought it was obvious.” Geralt huffs, maybe a bit impatiently. It’d be hard to blame him for it though, when everything that’s important to him is banking on Jaskier understanding his intentions this time. He doesn’t want to throw mixed signals, doesn’t want Jaskier to think for even a second that he’s unwanted, that Geralt isn’t sure about this. He’s very, very sure. Absolutely certain. “I want you, Jaskier. Come back with me, travel with me again.”

“But, my coven…”

“We’ll dispatch them before we leave.”

“What?! Geralt!” Jaskier shouts shrilly, pinching Geralt’s nipple in reprimand. Geralt just tips his head back and laughs, low and husky, amused by his own antics. “You can’t make an exception for me and not for them! If I’m still a person then so are they! They have families, loved ones, passions. Being a monster isn’t _all_ they are.”

“You always were one to complicate things by pondering morality, weren’t you?” Geralt sighs, but he’s taken a page from Jaskier’s book, and is simply playing it up for the theatrics of it. Jaskier doesn’t look nearly as pleased to have his own tricks used against him. So Geralt relents, lets his voice get serious, lets his gaze meet Jaskier’s directly. “I won’t kill them, if that’s what you want. I’ll leave them be until they become a problem, in which case all bets are off. I hope you understand that much.”

“I do. But that won’t happen. I’ve taught them all to be as humane as possible with how they feed.”

“They might stray from your influence once you’re gone.” Geralt muses aloud, considering. Like he’s admitted now, he doesn’t actually know about the pack dynamics of vampires. It’s not a well-known topic and he’s never had anyone to ask. Are they like an army battalion, bonded through trauma and bloodshed? Or are they more like a family, people that care and nurture each other?

“Who said I was going with you, huh?” Jaskier counters, sitting up in his lap and crossing his arms, glaring down at Geralt. And at that, Geralt feels old wounds reopening, stitches pulling free. He shoves Jaskier off of him and down into the cushions with a little bounce, and then he’s on his feet. He doesn’t want to look him in the eye right now, knows that Jaskier could see right through him. After all, Jaskier _knows_ him, better than anyone else ever has.

He paces, crossing the room and gathering his things, his heart fluttering in his chest compared to usual. 

He’s sure that Jaskier can hear it.

He pulls on his smallclothes and his breeches, tightening his belt around his waist. He’s just reaching for his shirt when Jaskier finally speaks again, sounding impossibly uncertain from the other side of the room. He hates it immediately, wants to chase that nervousness away with reassurance. 

“Geralt, I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t help, but I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. It’s just, I’ve come to think of these people as my family. Yes, I love you and care deeply for you, but you’re asking me to give up my _home_. It’s not as simple as just dropping everything because you asked it of me.”

Damn it.

“But you _want to_ , right? Come with me?”

“Of course I do, is that even a question? In the same way you want to give up your witcher duties and give me everything I could ever want. It’s just not as simple as what we want. There are other people at play. If I leave suddenly, it’ll hit the coven hard, especially now after losing two of our own.”

“Then I’ll stay until you have everything sorted.” Geralt says matter-of-factly, turning to face him. His shirt hangs loosely from his shoulders, unbuttoned and abandoned in favor of something more important. Their eyes meet from across the room and Jaskier brightens considerably.

“You’re willing to put your life on hold and wait for me?”

“Jaskier, what part of I spent months searching for you didn’t you understand? My life is no life at all without you. I’ll wait as long as it takes for you. I always will.”

Geralt realizes the mistake he’s made when the corners of Jaskier’s lips curl upward in a crooked little grin, far too pleased with himself considering the severity of the topic. Geralt sighs.

“I’m going to write the most _wonderful_ song.” Jaskier promises, giddiness enveloping all of his features. 

“Ugh, here we go.” Geralt groans, falling back into the chair he’d occupied earlier. Jaskier is grinning wickedly now though, as he settles back into the cushions and begins to hum a distant and clumsy tune that’s seemingly new to the both of them. He mumbles words, abstract little minds, and not for the first time Geralt bears witness to his entire creative process right from the beginning. Geralt tries and falls to remain mad at him.

“I haven’t written since I was turned, it’s been years, but you’ve just inspired me.” Jaskier informs him gratefully, flashing a smile in his direction, one far more genuine and lacking any of the deviousness from before. Something in Geralt’s chest crumbles and then it’s impossible to be mad at all. The thought of Jaskier giving up his passion, despite all the headaches and the suffering it’s brought the both of them, is the worst thought Geralt has ever had. He never, ever wants to see the day that Jaskier hangs up his lute for good and never composes another song. 

“Have… I?” Geralt says, trying to keep his tone neutral, treading uncertain ground. He doesn’t want to discourage Jaskier, not now, even if he is writing what will no doubt be the most cheesy ballad to grace the pubs this side of the country in a century. Geralt reckons he can tolerate that, as long as it keeps that passionate spark shining in Jaskier’s eyes.

“My life is no life at all without you, how romantic! All of the ladies in the tavern will swoon, wondering who held such great power over Geralt of Rivia to inspire such a lovely sentim-”

“I have to go back to town, Cirilla is waiting for me.” Geralt tells him plainly, as he finishes lacing his boots back up. He doesn’t mean to sound so gruff, it’s just that outside of sex it’s much harder for him to speak his feelings, and Jaskier has to know this by now. So if he starts to blush a faint but obvious shade of pink… he doesn’t want Jaskier to call him out on it. 

“Princess Cirilla of Cintra? The one that’s missing and being hunted down like a defenseless fawn by the entire Nilfgaardian army?” He asks hesitantly, like he thinks he’s misheard something. But Geralt simply nods, reaching for his swords where he’s left them in the corner. He pauses though when an ungodly screech sounds from across the room. “Geralt! You left that poor child unguarded and alone?!”

Something hits him upside the head. He thinks it might be a cast iron candle holder.

“Ow.” Geralt grunts, reaching up to rub at the newly-attained wound. He hadn’t even had time to react, damn it. Jaskier is seriously a force to be reckoned with these days. “That actually hurt, you know. You underestimate your strength now. It might even bruise.”

“You really are hopeless without me, aren’t you?” Jaskier sighs, rising from the cushions and padding over to where Geralt sits, completely nude. The injury quickly forgotten in favor of more important things, Geralt sits back and motions for Jaskier to sit in his lap. He does, but not without a bitter comment about the texture of leather riding breeches against his ass.

There’s something mesmerizing about holding a bare Jaskier, looking so small and delicate, when Geralt is completely dressed. He thinks it might be something for them to explore the next time they have sex.

“I wasn’t sure what I was walking into. It made sense to leave her behind.” Geralt explains, leaning in to place a chaste kiss to Jaskier’s lips. He doesn’t want them getting carried away again, Cirilla really is waiting on him, is probably starting to worry herself by now. But Jaskier is perfectly respectable for the first time in his life, and when Geralt pulls away from the kiss, Jaskier chases him only to litter light-as-snow kisses across Geralt’s face. His fingers gently trace his jawline and Geralt wordlessly turns his head to the side, giving him more room to work.

Jaskier presses a fleeting kiss to his jugular, and Geralt thinks he just might feel the press of fangs there.

“Bring her here. It’s safer than the towns are.”

“You want me to bring the defenseless human child into a vampire den? For _safety_?” Geralt scoffs, but quickly regrets it when Jaskier pulls away from him with hurt shining in his eyes. Overwhelmed with the need to make it up to him, Geralt leans forward hurriedly and kisses him again, with more intent behind it this time. Jaskier kisses him back, hands idly toying with the collar of his shirt.

They pull apart and Geralt stares into deep blue eyes.

“Do you trust me, Geralt?”

“Hm. I’ll be back within the hour.” Geralt tells him, which is an answer in itself without any of the finality of it. Jaskier sees it for what it really is anyway, face lighting up with relief. Geralt gently eases him to his feet, reluctantly pulling his hands away from smooth bare skin and shoving his gloves on instead. “You’d best have a bed arranged or she’ll give you an earful about it.” 

“I’ll arrange everything you’ll need. Leave it to me.” 

“Alright.” Geralt nods, turning to the door. He’s never been the type for dramatic farewells and he doesn’t want to risk them getting tangled up in each other again, so it’s best he heads out now without any fanfare. He wants to get back to Ciri before dark.

But his feet feel heavier than they ever have, protesting each step and making it harder than the last.

His hand rests on the doorknob and he can’t bring himself to fucking turn it.

“Jaskier, I-”

“I know.” Jaskier responds, before Geralt has even said a word to explain his thoughts. Geralt furrows his brows together in confusion and turns to him, ready to snap at him for assuming. He doesn’t know. He can’t possibly. How could anyone else understand the way this feels? Walking away from Jaskier when the last time he’d done it had lasted years. He’d thought that was the last time he’d ever see Jaskier, but what if this was the real last time? The last last time?

The thought is a crippling brutal sort-of thing and it eats away at him, leaves something raw and vulnerable exposed in his chest that he’s been patching with bandages for months rather than taking the time to properly heal.

But when Geralt turns, Jaskier is standing there with his clothes half shrugged onto his body, is rapidly covering himself in more layers. Like he’s in a rush, for some reason. Like he plans on going somewhere.

Like he plans on going _with_ Geralt.

Jaskier taps him on the shoulder a moment later, wearing a complete outfit, boots included. His smile is blinding where he directs it up at Geralt, bright and bold, like he _knows_. Maybe he does. Maybe he feels just the same way after thinking he’d never see Geralt again. “Hurry along, let’s go. If we make good time we might reach the tavern in time for you to have a meal there. You really should recuperate your energy after losing so much blood, witcher or not. And I don’t trust you to take care of yourself, so I’ll have to accompany you.”

Jaskier rushes out the door ahead of him, like he has so many times before, and Geralt feels weak in the knees. Weak in the heart, too.

“It’s good to have you back, Jas.” 

“It’s good to be back.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!!! GOD, it feels good to be here, hello hello HELLO! I have so many feelings about this show and this ship, it's literally consuming me from the inside out, it's enlightened a passion in me that I wasn't sure another fandom ever would after getting SO invested in my last one. Unfortunately, none of my friends watch The Witcher, and therefore i am being left alone to my devices and i NEED to talk about this. So here, have my heart on a plate, let's be friends.
> 
> In all honesty, I've owned the witcher 3 for ps4 for literally years and I never got around to playing it. Now I feel like a damn fool and I'm also considering buying it for the switch because I prefer it to the ps4 nowadays plus then i get the dlc. Yes or no, should I spend a hundred canadian dollars on this impulse purchase? im trusting the strangers reading this fic to be my compass, im sure u wont steer me wrong, horny brethren 
> 
> So, I already have my next fic for this fandom 75% finished... it's a poly fic of Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer because guess what, i have been STARVING for a poly ship for years and now one has fallen into my lap and i would have to be a fool not to take advantage of that. It features pre-established Yennefer/Geralt and some HEAVILY pining Jaskier. AKA Yennefer and Jaskier bond over how they're both too chicken to confess that they're in love with Geralt, Jaskier bc he doesn't want to risk their friendship, Yen because she's terrified to entrust her heart to someone even though she already has and saying it aloud will make no difference. They all get together and love each other a lot in the end, obviously, bc the day I write an unhappy ending is the day i Die and you can quote me on that, thank-you.
> 
> Okay... I think that's all I have to say. Obviously it isn't, but I'll just have to write more fics and ramble in their author's notes, bc this is getting a little bit excessive as it is. Thank-you so so much for reading. I'm currently participating in a funky little event that me and my friend Jillian came up with, which is spookruary, because I wanted a SECOND Halloween in 2020 and Jillian is just enough of a madlad to encourage me. So, you can perhaps expect a couple more monsterfucking fics before the end of the month. If you have a request for anything in specific, feel free to slide into the comments below.
> 
> My social medias:
> 
> @melancholymango is my main acc on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw fandom acc on twitter where yes, i shamelessly retweet all kinds of geraskier fanart


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